


Give A Little Love

by sullenhearts



Category: The Academy Is...
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 13:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17704949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullenhearts/pseuds/sullenhearts
Summary: When Adam hurt his finger in 2009, what if it had never healed? What would have happened to TAI? This is a fic about the what ifs, what if Sisky and the Butcher settled down together, what if the Becketts wanted another baby, what if Michael went back to Hillsong United? This is a Mike centric fic about him joining United too and about faith and finding it where you didn't expect to, and about love and how sometimes all you need is to give a little love to have it come right back to you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> F and I originally wrote this in 2009, after Adam had hurt his finger and wasn't playing bass for TAI. We wondered what would have happened to the band, and then we wrote Mike and Michael and Naomi getting together much to the bafflement of the rest of the band. We posted it to the lj community bandombigbang in April 2010. As it turned out, TAI split up eighteen months later. 
> 
> The fic was pretty odd at the time because we wrote it online, over a long period of time, and we are a Canadian and a Brit who were writing about Americans and Australians. We are indebted to littlerhymes for her steady eye and beta work. I asked F if I could post it to AO3 because I feels it deserves a new audience, and she very kindly said I could. 
> 
> I feel it has to be said that in ten years I have become a better writer, and if I was to write this fic now it would be really different for that reason and others. But it is what it is, and I hope it can still be enjoyed :)

Sisky's hand never gets better. Oh, sure, he can write now, although his handwriting's not exactly the cursive beauty it was before, and he can do everything he could before, like untie knots or fasten zippers, but he still can't play the bass properly. He tries to adapt, and it's so frustrating watching him get frustrated at himself when he's trying to play with his middle and ring fingers.

He practically throws the bass down at one practice and storms out. William stops singing, voice strangled, and they all look at each other. Finally Butcher sighs, stands up and follows him, dropping his drumsticks to the floor as he does so.

Mike knows then and there that this is how their band ends; this is how they split up.

*

Sisky likes to talk about how everything happens for a reason, about how things that seem disastrous bring happy things eventually, about how if you want the rainbow you have to put up with the rain. Mike thinks that that's some fucking hippy shit, really, but he can also see that no matter how much Sisky tries to convince himself that he's not devastated by this that it's all lies. They can all see it. Sisky's pain is written on his face. He's soothed by Butcher's hand on his back, as usual; his face tucked in Butcher's neck. Mike would like very much for Butcher to keep doing that forever if it makes Sisky feel better.

"Replace me," Sisky says.

"No way," Mike says, right as Butcher says "No!" and William says "I don't _think_ so, Adam."

"But then you guys get to carry on."

"Not without you," William says.

"Yeah," Mike agrees. "Not without you."

Butcher and Michael don't say anything, and Mike knows that because he and William have said it - original members both - that now it's true. Butcher and Michael would have gone with the status quo and done what the majority wanted.

Sisky is crying softly, and Butcher drapes himself all over Sisky's back and kisses his spine.

They don't tell anyone except Tony until the tour is finished. Mike and William talk about it and they don't want the extra attention, so they don't tell. The shows are pretty much sold out anyway, which is very cool. At the very last show in Atlanta, Sisky comes out to play bass for the encore. The crowd screams for him and he looks down coyly, concentrating on his fingers. Mike grins at him and hugs him afterward, wishing more than anything that he could undo what's been done.

Sisky pays for it later, and is in pain for a week. That, more than anything, makes them all realize they've made the right decision.

*

They go five separate ways and for weeks Mike mopes in his apartment, unable to settle to anything or get anything done. All he does is watch every season of The Wire, in order, from start to finish. It's a comfortable achievement. It's better than thinking about the future. He has no idea what his future holds. It's scary and uncomfortable and it reminds him of being eighteen. 

William calls. "I'm going on tour."

"Wow, there's a surprise."

"Haha, shut up. I am, though. Solo."

"Good for you. Did Tony organize it?"

"He did, but..."

"But what?" Mike pulls a thread on the arm of his couch.

"Adam's going with me. As my tour manager."

"Oh. Cool."

"Yeah? Yeah."

"Of course it is."

"Yeah. Anyway, I'm in LA in April. You'll come, right?"

"Of course."

"And Michael, tell him too."

"I will."

They chat for a while longer, and when they're done, Mike calls Tony.

"Hey, thought you'd died or something," Tony says amiably. There's a sound like he's excusing himself from a conversation.

"Are you busy? I'll call back."

"Nah, I'm good."

"Okay. So what's the deal with Bill?"

Tony laughs. "I don't think we have enough time."

Mike laughs too. "Okay, but. Why aren't you going with him on tour?"

"Because Sisky's going."

"Sisky's not a tour manager."

"Fuck's sake, Mike, it's not rocket science. He'll be fine."

"I don't mean that. Not what I'm saying."

"So what do you mean?"

"Why aren't you going?"

"I have a bunch of Snakes and Suits shit going on. Bill wants Adam with him, as usual. I told them I'll be on call, but basically, they're going to be fine."

Mike 'hmms' in thought.

"Seriously. This is a good thing for both of them."

"Okay. If you think so."

"I do, I really do."

If Tony says it, it must be true. That's the rule by which Mike has lived his life for the last six years, so he's not going to stop now.

It's just. Sisky is kind of chaotic. Can he really manage a tour? Even if it's only a tour of one person?

Mike remains unconvinced, but he's prepared to be shown otherwise.

*

Michael calls when Mike's halfway through a Buffy marathon.

"I haven't seen you in months."

"Chizzy, don't exaggerate. It's been like six weeks."

"The last time I saw you, you were about to do your washing. It doesn't count."

"Alright, man, fuck."

"Come over for dinner."

"Okay."

"Huh, that was easier than I thought."

Mike laughs. "When?"

"Sunday."

"Who's cooking?" Mike says.

"Uh," Michael says. "Take out?"

"Remember when we went to Butcher's place? That apartment he had for like a week and a half, and Sisky made us dinner?" Mike says. It's not what he meant to say. It hurts.

"It was good," Michael agrees. "He surprised me."

"Yeah. He'll do that," Mike says around the thing that's sprung into his throat. "See you Sunday."

*

Michael hands Mike a beer. They're on his porch and he sits down next to Mike. "So what've you been doing?"

"Nothing. You?"

"Writing a little, recording a bit. Talking to people."

"That's all you ever do."

"True." Michael laughs. "Listen, though. United have been in touch. They want me back. On guitar."

Mike raises his eyebrows. "Are you going?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm think I'm gonna."

"Cool. Good for you." Mike feels like he's been saying that a lot recently. "Back to being a Pentecostal pin-up."

Michael snorts then laughs, a faint blush rising on his cheeks.

There's a pause, then Michael says, "I want you to come."

"What?"

"Come play guitar for them."

"But. What?"

Michael sighs like it's Mike who's being particularly difficult. "Get off your lazy arse and come on tour."

"Fuck you," Mike says belligerently. "I'm not sitting on my ass. I took my fucking garbage out, which your wife made me do last time I was at your house too, I might add."

"I was getting around to it," Michael says vaguely, even though they both know he wasn't and Naomi will call Mike this weekend to come clean out the gutters, fix leaky faucets, all the things Michael stares at perplexedly.

"But I'm not a Christian, Michael."

Michael shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. They need a guitarist, you are a guitarist, and I put them together."

Mike chews his lip and lights a cigarette. He sighs loudly, and thinks quickly. On the one hand, it's weird and it's nothing to do with his future plans. Which he doesn't have, but they don't involve Pentecostals. On the other hand, it's a tour. Mike likes touring. 

He and Michael change the subject, and then they eat, but two days later he calls Michael and says he's in.

*

Mike is actually speechless. He's not sure that ever actually happened before. It's the first night he's played with Hillsong United and he's... almost paralyzed even at soundcheck. The stage is huge. There are a fuck ton of musicians to fit on, sure, but even so. This stage is humongous. People swarm everywhere. He'd thought it would be like being back with The Academy, back with one tech running between three guitars and a microphone, but United is more sophisticated than that. He has a tech of his _own_ , called Joshua, who smiles widely when he plugs Mike's guitar in, then slaps Mike's arm as he leaves the stage.

There are techs and people everywhere, and Mike's told to stand still while someone shines a light on him, and there are yells and shouts and across the stage Michael stands, beautiful like always, one hand on his hip and the other on his cell phone, texting. He's partly completely oblivious as usual and partly completely used to this circus.

Mike's never been the best musician in the entire world, and he's the first to admit that. These guys are fucking tight. They're a huge orchestra, basically. A slightly rock 'n' roll orchestra but still one none-the-less. Everyone knows every word to every hymn they're playing. Mike didn't know hymns could sound like this, didn't know the people singing could sound like they meant every word. This is something else. It's uplifting. It's like everything a great show should be, only more. The singers to his right all lift their arms in praise and Mike has to turn away, slightly embarrassed by their sincerity. When he looks across at Michael, Michael is singing every word too, like there hasn't been half a decade between his last show with United and now, like he did this just yesterday.

Mike fucks up slightly and he says so afterward. Michael and Jonah, another guitarist, shake their heads.

"Nah, you were right," Jonah says.

Mike knows that's not true; he did make a couple mistakes. But everyone here is so _nice_. Mike likes it. He knows that Michael must have pulled some major strings to get him on board, given that he's neither the best musician nor a Christian. Maybe they just wanted Michael back so much that the agreed to the two of them. Maybe it's like when Michael first joined The Academy and wanted James with him. Maybe Mike makes Michael feel less homesick for their band.

Whichever it is, Michael did a good thing for him. Mike slings an arm around his neck and kisses his cheek. "Thanks man."

"What for?" Michael asks, surprised.

"Everything," Mike says. People are peering at them strangely. Mike pretends not to notice and realizes belatedly that it's because of the kiss. He's not supposed to kiss Michael. He gets that.

Later, when the show starts, Mike stands, just about to go on, and watches the mass of the crowd move, already excited for what's coming. If he had joined Fall Out Boy, this is what his life would have been like, he thinks. Minus the Christian stuff, obviously, but with the huge arenas and massive crowds. 

Behind him, everyone else, including Michael, is praying together, wishing for a good show and a positive experience for those watching. Joel has his hand on the back of Michael's neck and Michael has one arm around Joel and the other around Deborah, one of the singers. Mike can't watch it it; it's too sincere. They all have their eyes on the ground and Joel is speaking for all of them like the fucking pastor's kid he is.

Meeting Joel was strange. He's United's leader, he's the grandson of the church's founder, for Christ's sake, so he's pretty much everything Mike expected him to be. But there's a funny, sarcastic side to him too, so Mike actually likes him. But he's also kind of jealous of his friendship with Michael. They've grown up together, and there's a depth of shared experience and time that Mike feels like he'll never have, even after spending three years in a band with Michael.

He understands, for the first time, what it must have been like for Michael, coming in their band after so much shit and with so many strong friendships already in place.

He kind of has a lot more respect for that, now.

*

Tour grinds like it always does, after the high wears off. Sleep then play, sleep then play. Mike plays shows and tries not to listen too hard to all the rhetoric. When he needs it, really needs it, he lets himself glance across the stage to Michael and fixes his eyes on that earnest upturned face.

Michael looks out at the crowd and smiles like he believes with them, and Mike watches his face. He might not be with them, one of them, but looking at Michael guides him, keeps him steady. Mike knows he's outside whatever this is, but looking at Michael gives him a glance inside the door.

One night he gets drunk with the two techs who do drink, who are willing to lurk off with Mike and find a bar somewhere and talk about Family Guy and how hot Britney Spears is finally getting to be again. It's good times and Mike still leaves early.

He gets back to the room and fumbles through getting the door open. Michael is asleep in one bed and Mike knows he shouldn't but he kicks off his shoes and throws his hoodie on the other bed and climbs in.

"This ain't Decaydance, mate," Michael says sleepily, but he rolls over to Mike anyway. "I've got a wife, you know."

"Your wife could cut my dick off," Mike says. "Without flinching."

"And she would," Michael says drowsily. He's asleep in the way touring and then getting a real bed does to you; even though he's awake, he's not willing to open his eyes. "You've got your own bed over that way, you know."

"I just miss them," Mike says. He rolls over onto his back and stares through the black at the ceiling, sterile and featureless. It's the same fucking ceiling he'll see in over a hundred hotel rooms. "I miss them, fuck."

Michael makes the same soothing sound he makes for his wife and rolls closer. Mike's still not under the covers but Michael tugs him down and in anyway. Mike rolls over and his face is set in the skin of Michael's neck. He's still wearing jeans and it sucks, he's going to fall asleep in his spinning half drunk state and wake up sore and head aching, but he takes a deep breath. It feels closer to a sob than he'd like.

"Shhh," Michael says, and runs a hand over his back. "Shhh."

Mike mumbles something. It comes out a little mean, even though he doesn't intend to. Michael makes the sound again, the little roll of wordless hum.

"I'm not your wife, man, fuck off," Mike says, but it comes out weak.

"Go to sleep," Michael says. "Go to sleep and go visit them when you get back."

*

He goes to Chicago because it's convenient and because he needs to go see his mom. It just all works out. Mike does not go because Michael told him to, or because of William and Sisky. They just got off tour and flying to Chicago worked out.

"Man, shut up," Sisky says, laughing at the airport. "Shut up."

Sisky drives Mike to his mom's and for two days he eats home cooked food and fixes the shit his stepdad hasn't had time for and probably needs to stop trying to do. He sleeps in and makes too much coffee and drinks it all and on the third day he borrows his mom's car, drops her at work and drives to Fox River.

"Breakfast?" Sisky says at the door in his pajama pants, like Mike called, like everything's fucking jake.

"I ate," Mike lies, but they wind up at a diner anyway. William is already slouched in a corner booth. Mike sprawls down across from him as Sisky slides in on his side.

For a moment Mike expects Tom and the Butcher to walk in the door. He expects William to say something about Christine's parents, Sisky to make a joke. For a second it's like old days and then Sisky leans over William's menu instead of opening his own, and Mike realizes it's because it still hurts too much for him to do that. 

They sit and eat pancakes and Mike has bacon because of how much shit Naomi and Michael give him about it, how bad it is for him. It tastes fucking amazing.

"Butcher's going vegetarian again," William says casually, watching Mike gloat over his bacon. "I don't know why."

Sisky swallows and plays with his fork a little, casually. "Um."

"I know YOU know why," William says. "I know you know!"

"Actually, he's trying to get me to quit eating meat too," Sisky says. "We're, um--" 

He blushes and Mike says, "Fucking A, are you two getting married?" He's not serious. Butcher and Sisky have been doing this nebulous tenuous on tour off tour thing for so long he can't imagine Sisky without Butcher. He knows they both sleep with other people sometimes, but also that on tour, they work together better than anything else. They've been off tour for a long time, though, and he's not sure what their deal is right now. He's not sure if they want each other the way he sees them sometimes, curled around each other smiling.

"I got into Berkeley," Sisky says, very fast. "I got into Berkeley and we're going to, um, Butcher wants to live together and --" He stops.

"Oh my god, Sisky," William says.

"Are you gonna get matching tattoos?" Mike asks.

"We've had matching tattoos since I was nineteen," Sisky says. "You just can't see Butcher's anymore."

William appears to take a second to process. "You got his brand on your ASS. I'm so glad none of the rest of us did that."

"Pussies," Sisky says, around a mouthful of pancakes. "But yeah. I think the whole meat thing-- I think he's trying to clean the slate."

That makes sense to Mike. It's been a long long time and Butcher's been playing this game with Sisky, where they're together on tour and then they're home and not, for too long. Mike would want to clear it too. He'd want a fresh start.

"Berkeley?" William says, like he's been poring over it, like it's been resting in his hands. "Sisky, really?"

"My folks threw money at them," Sisky says. "And I'm gonna have to bust my ass first year and never miss a class, but yeah. Berkeley."

Sportscasting, Mike thinks. News. Sisky will be fine. Butcher will make sure of that.

"Berkeley!" William says. "Sisky!"

"I can come out with you in the summers," Sisky says. "When Tony can't. But Bilvy, Butcher, I mean--" He takes a bite of pancake. "Butcher convinced me to apply."

Butcher would, Mike thinks. Butcher thinks Sisky hung the sun. "Where is he, anyway?"

"In Milwaukee," Sisky says, and grins a small secret smile. "He's, um, he's been around."

"You assholes," Bill says, but not bitterly.

"Now you know," Sisky says. "Um. He's going to come into town tomorrow."

They go out with Butcher and Sisky down to the lake. Butcher's grinning and Sisky's grinning and they hold fucking hands, like they used to on tour, like little kids they hold hands and Butcher swings their hands and Sisky laughs. Mike feels this twinge. When William drags Sisky off to look at a bird, he says to Butcher, "How long have you been planning this?"

"Well, I met him when he was sixteen," Butcher says thoughtfully, "So I'd say about, um, since the day I was born?"

He smiles at Mike like there's nothing more serious under discussion than when they're going to go get high, or the Packers chances this year.

"You're crazy," Mike says. "You're insane."

"This guy I met in San Francisco is gonna rent to us," Butcher says. "It's the top half of the house so we can take the cats and he can drive to school and if I can't give him back music, Mike, I can give him this."

"I think he wants this more than he wants music," Mike says. "I think he wants you."

"It's been a long fucking time," Butcher says. "A long time, Mike."

"Fuckin' A, you are gonna wind up with matching tattoos," Mike says.

"Mike, we HAVE matching tattoos," Butcher says patiently, and Mike starts to laugh and doesn't stop until William and Sisky come back over to stare at him, perplexed.

*

Mike goes back on tour, in unchanging hotel rooms with Michael. Bill writes them long-winded emails about the tour he's on and what's he's been writing for a solo album. Butcher and Sisky move to San Francisco. On their first long break Naomi drives them all up while Mike sleeps in the back with Michael. They snore and she doesn't complain and when they stop for coffee Mike switches her out.

"You should have been a musician," he says. "I'd rather drive with you than any guy I know. When William--" He stops. "I was always afraid William would kill us when I was sleeping."

"Bloody hell, a van with William," Michael says, and then promptly falls back asleep in the back with his wife. He drools into her shoulder and Naomi catches Mike's eyes in the rear view and laughs.

"Want a towel or something?"

"In spittle and in health," she says, resignedly. "Tally ho."

"That's not how the vows go," Mike says, and beside the highway the ocean stretches out before them. Life feels limitless. He feels more grounded here with Naomi and Michael than he has in months. They ground him, make him feel safe. He forces himself to not think too much about that. 

"Sometimes you have to adapt them," Naomi says from the back. There's something significant in the way that she looks at Mike in the rear view mirror, but Mike can't quite unpack what she means. 

The house isn't far from the ocean. Butcher can run there in the mornings. ("And I do," he says happily, excitedly. "Get up, get high, go running," Sisky says resignedly. "At least you don't go surfing stoned. Ohhh!" "Yet!" Butcher says, and they grin at each other.) It's covered with vines and their apartment is actually pretty small, one room for the kitchen and dining and living room combined, a bathroom with an old old claw foot tub, and their bedroom. Butcher's already colonized the main room with art projects, you can barely move in it. Sisky takes them out on the balcony to smoke and so they can breathe.

"There's a loft above us," he says. "It's got skylights, we just need to paint it and get his stuff up there." 

"Man, I told you, that's where we should put the bed," Butcher says. "Mike, come look, tell me what you think."

"Fuckin' A," Mike says, nodding at the loft. "Yeah." It's awesome, one big room and he sees both their points. The view is perfect and if it was painted, it would be a studio no problem. But it's also an awesome place to wake up, Mike thinks, and he sees Butcher's point. "I'm with Butcher."

"Good, you can help him move the bed," Sisky says spitefully.

Mike does wind up helping move the bed, and so does Michael. Sisky stands with Naomi and says helpful things until Mike kicks them out of the room.

The rest of the visit goes great. Sisky talks about his classes and cooks and Butcher wanders around the apartment taking photos. They eat on the balcony, balancing plates on their laps, and Naomi spills a glass of wine off the balcony onto the shrubs below.

"Shit," she says. "Wine, is it any good for lilacs?"

"Sacrifice to the household gods," Butcher says, and throws a pinch of weed from the joint he's rolling after it.

"Drunk and stoned guardian spirits," Sisky says, resigned.

"So no different from life on tour," Mike says, and then wishes he could take the words back.

"Less travel," Sisky says easily, like it doesn't matter, like Mike can't see his right hand clench in frustration. "I drive to school every day and that's it."

"What about you?" Michael asks Butcher, hastily. "What's the plan?"

"Dude, make art, do the website," Butcher says, and laughs. "Bum around. Have a place for a while. I'm still excited about that." 

"You're crazy," Sisky says fondly.

"I'm going to be the best housewife a student ever had," Butcher says.

"Tattooed and bearded and high, but none-the-less the best," Naomi says, and she and Butcher high five each other.

"You're going to be my mentor," Butcher says. "I'm going to be calling you every day, 'Sensei, how much laundry soap? Sensei, how long is fish good for?'"

Naomi laughs. "Less than you think. The answer is always less than you think."

"I'm going to get food poisoning," Sisky says, but he says it happily. Butcher finishes the joint and holds it for Sisky to toke first.

"At least you'll die in clean underwear," he says.

*

Back off tour, again. Naomi collects them both from the airport. She's smiling shyly in Arrivals, and Michael sweeps her off her feet in a hug, kissing her. She giggles and swats at him until he puts her down. He does, but he keeps an arm around her waist. She hugs Mike, and Mike feels Michael's other hand on his arm too and he grins into Naomi's shoulder.

He should go straight home, because apart from anything he just sat on a long flight right next to Michael, and he's kinda sick of seeing the dude's face, but Naomi offers to feed him and Mike is a shallow guy and he likes to be fed home cooked food. She'll have made a huge dish of Quorn chilli or curry or something, and she'll serve it with rice and some kind of bread, and it will be delicious. Mike's stomach growls just thinking about it, so he nods and follows Michael and Naomi, hands swinging in the air between them, back to the car.

Michael's catching up with TiVo later, after they've eaten. Mike sits in the easy chair in the Chislett living room and before he knows it he's fallen asleep.

When he wakes up, Michael is asleep on the couch, covered with a thin blanket, and Mike can hear Naomi moving about in the kitchen.

She's unloading the dishwasher and he stoops to help her. He knows his way around the kitchen and he opens a cupboard to put plates away. It's not until goes to find something in his bag that he realizes that his dirty clothes are in the utility room, ready to be washed, piled with Michael's.

"You don't have to do my laundry," Mike says to Naomi, who's scrubbing down the sink. 

"It's nothing."

"No, really. That's not fair, I can't expect you to do that."

"You don't expect it, I volunteered. I'm doing Michael's so I might as well do yours."

"You're not my wife, though."

"Nah, but I like you enough."

Mike laughs. "Well, thanks."

Naomi shrugs. "Welcome. Plus, you know, you don't have a washer."

"Yeah. Thanks, though."

She smiles, lighting up her eyes. 

Michael wakes up just as they're making tea. Well, Naomi's making tea, with teabags and a teapot and all kinds of weird natural teas. Mike likes that about her; that she believes everything can be cured with tea. Mike's sitting at the bar in the kitchen, watching, when Michael comes in, shuffling and yawning sleepily, and slides his arms around his wife.

"Hi," she says. "Tea?"

"Peppermint."

"Alright."

Michael grins at Mike over her shoulder. "Are you crashing here?"

"No, gotta get back to my place sometime, right?"

"You're welcome to," Naomi says. "Spare room's all made up."

Mike would love to. The Chislett guest room is all soft colors and pretty bedding and the idea of sinking into sleep there is a blissful one. His own apartment will be cold and unwelcoming and he knows for a fact his bed doesn't have clean bedding. But still, he protests a little more because they're _married_ and Michael hasn't seen his wife in five weeks. "Nah, I'm good. I'll call a cab. I don't want to disturb you."

"Babe, Michael will be asleep the minute his head hits the pillow," Naomi says.

Michael nods in agreement.

"Fine," Mike says, so fucking grateful for the both of them. He takes a cup of tea from Naomi and smiles into it.

The next morning Mike wanders into the kitchen just before 10am and pours himself some coffee from the pot. He can hear Michael and Naomi outside on the porch, chatting. He goes outside to join them.

"Morning sweetie," Naomi says.

Michael just waves.

Mike drinks his coffee and smokes a cigarette on their lawn, digging his bare toes into the cool earth. Naomi offers breakfast but Mike really has to get home so he shakes his head. He goes inside, gathers up his stuff and gets ready to leave.

Michael takes a bag for him. Naomi hands him back his laundry, all neatly folded. He should be embarrassed but instead he's just thankful he doesn't have to do _all_ his laundry in the laundromat. He kisses her cheek and says thank you, and they all drive across the city together. Mike says thank you again from the back of the car, and punches Michael in the arm as he gets out.

Home sweet home, whatever that is.

*

A few weeks later Bill's playing the House of Blues. He calls Mike up to invite him.

"Sure I'm there, my friend."

"Cool," Bill says. "What've you been up to?"

"Not a lot. Laundry, video games. Painted my bedroom, too."

"You're not working on anything?"

It's an innocent enough question but Mike knows it's anything but. Bill's never really been down with Mike touring with United. He seems to accept it in Michael - you know, one of those crazy things that Chiz does that everyone else thinks is kind of insane but just rolls with anyway - but can't do the same for Mike. He thinks Mike should be working on his own stuff, or with other people, or just plain not touring with a controversial Christian conglomerate.

Mike knows that if he were to write songs alone it would end up sounding like a bad Radiohead covers band, so he doesn't.

"You should come see us," Mike says, ignoring Bill's question.

"I'll see you the day after the House of Blues. We'll have lunch."

"Cool, but I don't mean that. I mean us. United."

"I don't--"

"Please."

There's a pause. Mike can't remember the last time he asked Bill to do something he didn't want to. He can tell Bill's thinking that too.

"Alright. When are you on?"

"A few weeks, but that's South America. I dunno, I'll get some details to you."

"Cool."

"Yeah. So, House of Blues."

"Thursday, yeah. Michael's coming and he's bringing Butch."

"Fuckin' A," Mike says. "I don't remember the last time I saw that bastard."

"Me either," Bill laughs. "Okay, I'm gonna go call Adam to invite him."

"He's not out with you?"

"Couldn't make it." Bill's tone is closed, so Mike doesn't push it. They say goodbye and hang up.

*

When Mike gets into the House of Blues he's accosted by some girls before he's even through the door, but that's cool, he's always amazed when anyone still recognizes him. He signs their CD inserts and poses for photos and tells them to enjoy the show before going inside.

Michael, Naomi and Butch are near to the bar. As he walks over, Mike can see that Butch and Michael are deep in conversation. Naomi is looking around, clearly bored. Her glass is empty so Mike stops at the bar and buys a beer for himself and a gin and tonic for Naomi.

She smiles up at him when he presses it into her hand. "Hi."

Michael nods in greeting, his ear close to Butch, listening.

It's a good show. Bill's a lot more used to playing acoustic to a bigger crowd than he used to be, and his voice carries much better than it ever did before. His new stuff is good, maybe sounding a little like The Magnetic Fields or something. He plays Down and Out and dedicates it to "all my friends here tonight". Mike smiles when he says that.

Afterward, they wait around and find Sisky standing across the room.

"No Butcher?" Mike asks.

"He couldn't make it." Sisky looks down when he says this and Mike wonders if that's the real reason, or whether Sisky and Butcher are fighting over something stupid, over one of the stupid things you fight about when your life is suddenly smaller than it used to be. They've never had to live together before, never had to wake up every day and deal with the dishes and paying the bills and making sure there's something for breakfast. Maybe it takes a lot of getting used to. Mike stares at Sisky in thought and only looks away when Sisky frowns at him.

Bill walks up to them eventually when only a few people remain in the venue, with a wide grin on his face and his arms outstretched. "So this is how I have to see you bunch of miscreants, tour in California."

Sisky's the first to hug him, pouncing on him like a small child. Bill wraps his arms around Sisky's waist and Mike laughs, hearing Sisky whine loudly. Bill shakes Butch's hand, kisses Naomi's cheek, high-fives and then hugs Michael, and then smiles at Mike before pulling him into a bear hug. "Missed you," Bill says, close, in Mike's ear, so only he hears.

Mike just nods back, conscious of everyone else, even if they couldn't hear.

They head out for some beers, the six of them and Bill's road crew. Mike talks to Sisky for most of the night, with Michael sitting opposite him, deep in conversation with Bill.

It's nice. Almost like the old days, except for how it's completely not.

They're closer to his place so Naomi and Michael cab it back with him. He even makes the bed for them, after he fights it out with Naomi about the couch. She gives up and even takes the probably clean t-shirt he finds for her to sleep in.

While she washes her face, Mike sits in the kitchen with Michael, perched on the counter, and they drink the last two beers in his fridge. They laugh together in the dark and when she gets out, Mike's putting the bottles in his recycling.

"You bastards," she says, hands on her hips. "Mike, I used your toothbrush but now I'm not going to tell you what for."

"Hey, if you used it, that's more than I've done in quite some time," Mike says. She makes a disgusted face and Michael excuses himself, to also use Mike's toothbrush, probably. As an apology, Mike roots out a bottle of tequila and does a shot with Naomi behind Michael's back.

"He doesn't even like this shit, though," he says, and she giggles.

"I know."

When Michael gets back, she kisses him and the disgusted face he makes is worth the unsettled feeling in Mike's stomach. He really needs to stop drinking so much. The dizzy free feeling he has now doesn't make up for the way he'll feel when he wakes up stiff and aching on the couch tomorrow, with Naomi and Michael asleep where he should be. 

*

Bill's talking on his cell phone when Mike arrives at the Water Grill. The waiter looks at him dubiously, taking in his battered jeans and beat-up sneakers, but still leads him across to where Bill's talking quietly. Mike takes a seat, takes a menu from the waiter, orders a beer and waits for Bill to finish.

Which he does eventually, shoving his phone back in his pocket. He pushes his bangs off his face and smiles at Mike. "Nice to see you, finally."

"You saw me last night."

"Not like this, though."

They look around at the same time, taking in the rich groups of women lunching, the sugar daddy with his pretty young girlfriend, the elderly lady eating alone.

"Yeah, no," Mike agrees. "Not sure we ever did this."

"My shout, by the way."

"Don't be fucking dumb, Bill."

"Nah, really."

"United do pay me, you know."

"Sure. Of course." Bill sips his water.

"Fuck's sake, Bill. You've got that fucking _look_ on your face like I just fucking crawled out from under something."

Bill just shrugs. Mike grunts in frustration.

"We could just not mention it," Bill says.

"It's my fucking job," Mike says. "Are we going to not talk about yours, too?"

"If you want. Here's the short version. I'm touring, it's depressing. I miss my family. I miss touring with you guys. I'm sick of the whole thing. End of story."

"Alright. I've been touring too, if you care. I fucking love it. I'm having a great fucking time. I want you to be fucking happy for me."

"Do you say fuck this often when you're with all the Pentecostals?"

Mike knows this isn't about Hillsong or United or Michael, not really. It's about Bill's own experiences with Church. It's about his mom feeling unwelcome after her divorce. It's about Christine's parents' reactions to him. It's about a lot of things, but fortunately Mike knows that.

"Why you say that like it's a dirty word, Bill?" His tone is gentle.

Bill shrugs and looks away. After a moment he says, "Don't you find them strange, though?"

"The United guys?" Mike thinks. "No. Not really? I mean sure there's parts I don't like. Like, praying before each show."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I guess I found it weird to start off. But now it's just a thing, you know? We had some weird pre-show shit going on too."

Bill smiles. "Like you obsessively counting plectrums."

"Or Sisky and his yell."

"Yeah."

Mike shrugs. "So I got used to it. They're good people. They're funny and caring and fucking professional."

"But they're so-"

"Conservative? I know. I still find it fucking weird. Things some of them don't like and it's like, Jeez, open your mind a little." Mike's not eloquent about this, but he knows Bill understands.

"Not Michael, though?"

"No, definitely not Michael. I think he got used to all that with us."

"I think Butch Walker helped."

Mike laughs. "Yeah."

They peruse the menu and chat about other things. Bill's tour, mainly. The waiter takes their order and brings over some bread.

"You're happy," Bill says eventually. "Fuck, you bastard. I didn't want you to be. I wanted you to be miserable and only sticking with it for Michael's sake, but you're all lit up like it's Christmas. You like it. You like _them_."

"Yeah," Mike agrees. "I do."

*

Bills calls a few days later and Mike misses his call to begin with, and when he calls back he realizes Bill will be on stage, so he leaves a message.

Bill calls back the next morning. "I didn't say this at dinner, I forgot."

"Good fuckin' morning to you too, Bill."

"Yeah. Hi."

"What's up?" Mike's on his balcony looking at the traffic outside.

"Didn't you think it was weird the Butcher didn't come with Adam to my show?"

"It's the Butcher, he embodies weird."

"Yeah, but still. I think it's weird."

"Maybe he just thinks your music sucks."

"I'm going to ignore that. I think it's important. I think they argued about it."

"What?"

"Like, Adam wanted to do something the Butcher didn't."

"So? Happens all the time. Do you know how many times I've done shit with Naomi that Michael didn't want to do?"

"Yeah, well, the least said about _that_ the better, Mike."

"Screw you," Mike says. His stomach lurches slightly. He pulls a dead flower off one of his plants viciously.

"But this is _those two_ ," Bill says, sounding worried. "Remember how we used to say wherever you found one you'd find the other?"

"Yeah, but they're not on tour anymore, Bill. It's different now."

"Yeah, but no one told them that." There's a sound like Bill shifting on the other side of the phone. "Just - they changed all the terms, right? They changed all the terms and now Butcher's, I don't know, he's a housewife and Sisky's a student. And it is all different, it's not like touring and being in a band together anymore."

Mike has to feel his way through that. "Maybe it is taking a little adjustment. But they'll be okay. They're living together."

"But they didn't ask for it to happen like this," Bill says stubbornly. "They didn't know this was going to happen. And if Adam wants things -"

"Butcher wants things too," Mike says. "Butcher wants things and Sisky wants him to have them. You know that."

Bill exhales, a long push of air from his lungs. Mike probes around the edges of the words, trying to figure out what he's missing.

"It's not easy," he says. "It's never easy. You know that."

Bill laughs and it's a little bit mean and cynical. "If I don't know, who does?"

"True," Mike says, and they say good-bye. Bill says, "Love you," and Mike says, "See you soon." They hang up and Mike has a beer and watches the world from his window for a while. Then he calls Sisky.

"Hi Mike Carden," Sisky says, sounding pleased. "I'm so glad you called, now all my new college friends will believe me when I say I used to be in a band with you."

"Shut it, Sisky," Mike says. "Where are you?"

"Just got outta class. Waiting for Butcher. Hanging out, I dunno. Where are you?"

There's the sound of Sisky saying good-bye to some one. It kinda sounds like a girl.

"I'm at home. Just talked to Bill. Who is that?"

"Don't tell anyone but now that I'm a real fag I have hags," Sisky says. There's a loud air kiss and some one dramatically announces, "Good bye, my darling!"

"You always had Bill," Mike says, and then has to hold the phone away from his ear until Sisky stops laughing. "I'm not kidding. Talk to him lately?"

"Two days ago?" Sisky says. "Three? School's crazy right now. Definitely since I saw him, yeah. Why?"

"Are you and Butcher good right now?" Mike says in answer.

Sisky makes a low pleased sound, satisfied like a sweet and lazy bee. "I think so, yeah."

"He didn't come to LA for Bill's show."

"He was tired," Sisky says. He doesn't sound defensive or angry. Sisky just sounds honest. "It happens, Mike."

"Did you ask him to come?" Mike asks.

"I always ask him," Sisky says. "Doesn't mean he's gonna say yes."

"Bill's freaking out a little," Mike says finally. "He called me and got all wacky."

"Bill's always freaking out," Sisky says. "Look, he freaked out when I couldn't tour with him, and he freaked out when Christine couldn't make it to LA to see all of us. He just -"

"It's about Christine!" Mike says. "Fuck. That's it."

"Hey, remember when we lived on a bus together and I still didn't fucking get you?" Sisky asks. "That was great, wasn't it?"

"Just you and your dad," Mike says. "Bill called and you know Bill, he made like it was all about you guys but I think -"

"Fuck, I guess they're fighting again," Sisky says. "Damn. Hey you."

There's a muted intimate sound. That's what a kiss sounds like down the line from San Francisco, Mike thinks, and then Sisky says, "I gotta go. Want to talk to Butcher?"

"Yeah, just, um, fucking call Bill, ok?" Mike says. Bill's always done better at telling Sisky what was going on than anyone else.

"Can do," Sisky says.

"Hello!" Butcher says, brightly. "Mike Carden, tell me about LA."

"Hot and smoggy," Mike says. "San Francisco?"

"Rainy and gay, but mostly I only know about the gay part. The website's kicking my ass," Butcher says, sounding truly puzzled, like he never expected the website to get busy. "I'm stupid busy. My baby's not getting his lunches packed for school anymore. And Lee wants to do another book."

"Your baby, huh," Mike says. "He can probably buy lunch. What's the book gonna be about?"

Butcher's got a bit to say, he's busy on the book and the web stuff is getting bigger than anyone had expected and Mike can tell Bill's right, they are both a little in over their heads. Sisky's never tried to be a student and Butcher's never tried to settle down before.

"You'll figure it out," Mike says. "You'll be fine."

"We'll be fine," Butcher says. "So will you."

"I _am_ fine," Mike says. "Life's the shit."

Butcher snorts and Sisky says, "Tell Mike to come visit."

"He's going to go on tour," Butcher says. "He doesn't have time."

"Tell him we'll come see him," Sisky says.

"I'll put you guys on the list," Mike says.

*

He has friends in LA who aren't Michael and Naomi.

"Who?" she says, genuinely interested. "And don't say Pete."

"Fuck you, that's who," he says, but he lets her take him to go buy towels. "You guys aren't allowed to sleep at my house anymore. It makes you all wifely when you wake up and realise I don't have tea towels. You can go home, I don't care how late it is. No more Australians in my bed."

"That reminds me, Bat For Lashes is playing at the Knitting Factory," Naomi says pleasantly. "I told Michael to get your ticket, since you got ours for that thing."

"I told you not to worry about that," Mike says. "You made me dinner."

"Anyway," she shrugs, and when they go they wind up right against the barrier. Michael braces his body around Naomi and Mike gets to do the beer runs. He's got their tastes figured out, thank God, because the crowd is too loud and the band is too awesome for him to do more than lean in close and shout into Michael's ear.

Mike lays one arm over his shoulder and puts the other on the barrier by Naomi when some drunk kids get too close. He leaves it there, yelling something important, and she runs her fingers down his arm idly, drunk and wrapped up in the music.

She thinks it's him, Mike tells himself. She's drunk and she thinks it's Michael's arm.

Michael's arm is firmly wrapped around her waist. Mike is standing between them and the kids. Naomi is idly brushing her fingers over his wrist and forearm. Mike can feel it, as idle and warm as Michael's hair, close to his mouth.

The show is good. They have to tour in two days. But the show is great. Mike can call this one worth it.

"I'm glad you tour with him," Naomi says, drunk in the cab. "I'm glad he goes out with you now."

"Yeah?" Mike watches Michael out of the cab window, looking to where Michael is saying good-bye to some acquaintance he met on his way out the door. The guy is this close to throwing himself to his knees and begging Michael to come jam sometime.

 _Hurry up!!_ Mike texts him, and grins when Michael pulls his phone out and uses the text as an excuse to leave.

"Yeah," Naomi says sleepily. "I'm glad you're out there with him." She reaches out for his hand and Mike gives it to her. She's falling asleep. She's drunk.

"Did you tell him your wife wanted you?" Mike asks Michael as he gets in the cab. Naomi is dozing into his shoulder.

"Nah, told him it was my guitarist," Michael says, and laughs. "Christ, was he disappointed."

"I bet," Mike says.

When he leaves the cab, Naomi wakes up but only enough to say, "G'bye, Mike." She finally lets go of his hand.

In the house, his wrist still smells hot and sweet, like her perfume.

*

Mike has a job that doesn't suck and he works with people who are alright, even if people do keep taking Michael aside with guilty faces and then sending him over to tell Mike to stop swearing so much.

"I'm sorry," he says, and Michael shrugs.

"You can't change a leopard's spots," he says. "I don't mind how you talk."

"I'm making you look bad," Mike says.

"Just pretend you're talking to your granny, all the time," Michael says, and that confuses Mike because Michael knows his granny taught him to swear at Bears games.

"Ey!" Jonah says, indignant, and Michael laughs and belatedly Mike laughs too.

It's such a strange change in his life. The last six years of touring were all Butcher's weed habit and Tony swearing a blue streak when something went wrong and Sisky trying to stop William from accidentally walking off a roof. People here grit their teeth and put it in God's hands. Mike likes that.

He reminds himself of that when he hears things he doesn't like and bites his tongue as best he can. Michael got you here, he reminds himself, and these are his people and you can't -

He's not sure what you can't do. There are great guys here and then there are guys who let things spill out of their mouths that Mike never wanted to hear. He's an asshole, sure, but he's done his time with the stories of other people. Mike knows what kind of shit Travis got growing up; he knows Butcher has places in Milwaukee he just doesn't like to go. He knows Sisky doesn't hold Butcher's hand in public yet, even though they live in San Fran-fucking-cisco and he can't help tying their stories to the weight of words from a solemn crew member's mouth, shaking his head over Prop 8 getting defeated in California. Mike just leaves, because he knows his temper and he knows himself and once he broke a guy's jaw for hassling William, before they'd even played a show together.

"I can't listen to them talk like that," he says when Michael comes to find him. He's smoking on the curb outside the venue. "I like these guys, you know, but I can't."

He blows smoke away from Michael, who sits beside him. "I don't blame you." Michael looks down at his empty hands. "There are things... Sometimes, you have to read what's written and then you have to read what's there. And there are things that people still think that I don't agree with."

"But you still pray with these guys," Mike says. "You put your hand to an invisible god with a man who says Sisky's gonna burn in hell for being in love with the same person since he was seventeen."

Michael doesn't deny it. He just says, "What we say and what we live aren't always the same." He's drawing circles in the dirt between them with his index finger as he says it. He bumps Mike's thigh with his wrist on every go around.

Eventually Mike catches his wrist and holds it firmly. He wants Michael to know that he doesn't blame him. 

* 

The show that night is tight as usual. Mike does love playing with these guys, even though it's beginning to feel like he should be doing more, maybe writing like Bill said. He starts the show strong and finishes strong though and looks over to find Michael grinning at him.

"Don't look so proud, asshole," he says later. "I'm still a Chicago boy. You can't take credit for this."

"Chicago boy?" Michael says. "My wife does your laundry."

"I fix your faucets," Mike says, and shrugs. He does fix Michael's faucets. He tightens bolts for Naomi. When Michael complained about their old locks and the shady guy who sold them the house, Mike changed them. Michael hands him things, if Mike describes them very very well. Mike's not actually sure they have a toolbox in the house. His spends a lot of time in the back of Naomi's car, headed over there.

Naomi makes him dinner and does his laundry and Michael's warm hand touches his shoulder after every show. Mike doesn't mind life with a toolbox rattling in the back all the way to their house.

*

Sisky and the Butcher come out to see them in Seattle. They and Michael and Joshua and Joel and the rest of the Pentecostals shouldn't work, but it does. 

Mike's stomach aches for hours beforehand, because he's so worried that a) Sisky and Butcher will be mean about Hillsong's beliefs (but why? Neither of them have ever been mean in their lives) b) Sisky and Butcher will be mean about him being out with United (see above reiteration to that) or c) the United guys will be rude or nasty to Sisky and Butcher and shit will go down and Mike will end up battering someone, and then he'll get sacked from them and frankly, that'd suck (it says more than he'd like it to that he doesn't want to be ejected).

But Sisky smiles widely and shakes everyone's hand and Butcher waves when Mike makes the introductions. Joel starts to ask about Butcher's tattoos, and Sisky sits down with Michael and Joshua and makes fun of Mike.

Maybe they don't know. Maybe Sisky and Butcher don't seem like they're together. Maybe that's it. But then Butcher's arm snakes around Sisky when he perches on the end of a couch, and no one says anything.

Later, he complains to Michael about it.

"Maybe you underestimated them," Michael says.

"But - their _beliefs_ , Michael."

"You think someone can't believe all that stuff about God and still believe that two guys have the right to live their lives how they'd like to?"

"No, but-"

"Mike. Stop it. You make me feel like you think I'm anti-gay too."

"That's not what I meant."

"Maybe, maybe, but you could."

"But the things they _say_..."

"People change, Mike. People change. Things and beliefs and situations? They change."

*

It's only after Seattle that Mike realizes he hasn't talked to Bill in a while. He calls his cell and leaves a hundred messages on his home phone, and hears nothing for days. He's about to send a carrier pigeon or something when his phone rings.

"Hi," Bill says.

"Where are you?"

"Chicago. Where are you?"

"LA, where else?"

"You've been calling."

"Yeah," Mike jokes. "I've had a thing going with your answer machine."

"T-t-t-t-took me a while to pick up my messages." Bill's stuttering. That's never a good sign.

"What happened?"

"I'm no longer living here."

" _What_?"

"Yeah." Bill laughs, a bitter little laugh.

"You and Christine..."

"Aren't living together."

"Fuck."

"You can say that again."

"What happened?"

"She wants another baby."

"And you don't?" 

"I don't know," Bill sighs. "I didn't know I was allowed to want that."

Mike leaves that be for the time being. "So where are you staying?"

"With my dad."

"Ouch."

"I know."

Mike knows that more than a few weeks of that will be driving Bill crazy. "I'm home in two weeks. Meet me there. You can be my roommate for a while."

Bill laughs. "Mike, I've been in your place. It's tiny. There's nowhere to sleep except your bed."

"Yeah, but the other half of it has your name on it."

"Thanks. Really. I'll come there."

"You're welcome."

"I have to go. I need to pack up some bits and get out of here." He almost stutters on 'pack', Mike can tell, but he breathes through it. 

Mike says goodbye and hangs up feeling sorry for his friend. If even Bill and Christine can get to that point then anyone can. And that really fucking sucks.

He sends Sisky a message saying simply 'Call Bill'. Maybe Sisky can help. 

*

He and Bill talk, really talk, when Bill comes to visit. They watch TV and sit side by side on Mike's tiny couch, drinking beer. That way they don't have to look at each other as they speak. It has the effect of loosening both their tongues. 

"I didn't know she wanted another baby," Mike says conversationally.

"We talked about it."

"And you don't want the same thing?"

"I didn't know I was allowed to want it."

It's the second time he's said that and it seems an odd phrase to Mike. He thinks about the things he's not sure if he's allowed to want. Best not to think too much. It hurts. "How do you mean?" he asks carefully.

"Well, because we didn't plan Evie, did we? She just came along. I'm not used to planning things. Things usually just happen."

"You make some things happen, too. Like the band. Like now, touring solo. Those things only happened because you asked for them."

Bill shrugs. "I'm worried that I won't be a good dad if we plan it."

Mike turns to look at him. "What the fuck? How is that even logical?"

Bill's eyes are big behind his glasses. "I don't know. It just makes sense in my head. I don't have much faith in my parenting abilities."

"You're crazy."

"Maybe so, yeah."

"Go home to Chrissie," Mike says. "Quit worrying and have another kid."

"I wish it was that easy."

"It is that easy."

"Mike, how come you tell everyone else that, but you don't live it yourself?"

"What?"

"Sometimes, you miss things that really are easy, if only you would ask for them."

"If this is about me writing again-"

"It isn't about that. You'll write or you won't, it doesn't make a difference what I say."

"Finally, you get it."

Bill swigs the last of his beer and stands up. "I'm going to sleep. Just try to be a little less oblivious sometimes, k?"

Mike nods vaguely, but he doesn't really get what Bill means. He sits in the semi darkness for another hour, thinking.


	2. Chapter 2

Tour twists on like a winding road. Mike loses track of days and nights: I played a show and I played a show and I played a show, he thinks, and goes to bed in his own place eventually, after bunches of shows. The phone wakes him up.

"Mike," says William's wavering voice. "Mike, how fast can you get to Milwaukee?"

Butcher's been stabbed. Butcher, the dumb fuck, got involved in a fight between a guy and his girlfriend and ended up being stabbed with a flick knife by one of the guy's friends. He isn't dead, but the knife nicked a major artery and nobody seems to know the prognosis. 

Michael and Mike hold hands on the plane, neither wanting to let go. There's comfort in it. It's a red-eye flight and fairly deserted so they hold hands over the armrest and sit in complete silence all the way to Milwaukee. 

When they get there, Sisky is sitting half asleep in the waiting room and he sits up when they come in.

"They won't let me in," he says in an old, creaky voice. "They won't let me in because I'm not family and he has my fucking name on his emergency contacts, he has me on there and they still won't let me in."

"Ah hell," Michael says.

They're supposed to be going on vacation to the Virgin Islands with Butcher's mom and sister and Sisky's folks and Jason. Butcher's mom and sister, anyone who probably counts as 'family' to the admin staff, are already in the air, uncontactable. 

Mike wants to shout that Butcher's family is sitting in front of him, crying.

Sisky can't seem to get anything across with any solidity. He won't leave either. Mike finally puts him on his side over three long uncomfortable chairs and lies down, locking Sisky face first into the chair back. They sleep until William shows up with Dan. 

Dan is the one who gets solid answers out of the doctor and nurses, jaw tight. He's the one who quietly takes the doctor aside and starts talking, still tense in his mouth like Butcher never ever is.

He's the one who says, "You fucking people let my brother's partner sit here for hours, waiting to hear what was wrong."

He says that while William's taken Sisky outside for a coffee. He says it loudly and in front of a crowd and the doctor frowns and says, "Mr. Mrotek-"

"My fucking brother's dying and you couldn't be bothered to tell his partner what was happening," Dan says.

Dan's softer in the body than Butcher but he's hard where it counts like Butcher won't ever make himself be. By the time William's brought Sisky back inside, reeking of nicotine and hand shaking, Dan's got charts and papers and he's frowning down at them.

He looks up and says, "I thought you guys quit."

"Your brother has them hidden all over the house," Sisky says. "What did they say?"

"They're going to put him in emergency surgery," Dan says. "Now they've stabilized him, they have to operate on the artery. He stopped breathing a couple times."

"So it's really bad then," Sisky says. He doesn't sound frantic anymore. He sounds low and measured and horrible.

"He's going in as soon as they have a space," Dan says. It's not yes. It's not no.

*

Mike needs a fucking cigarette. He closes Butcher's door behind him and strides down the hallways, looking for an exit. When he finds one, he's right next to the ambulance bay. It'll do. 

He lights up and takes a deep drag, leaning against the hospital wall, and stares up at the sky. It's sunny and bright, a gorgeous mid-blue, and Mike is irrationally pissed, because how can the sun be shining when Butcher's dying in a hospital bed? 

Bill's followed him outside. He looks like Mike feels; tired, sad, worried. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and sits down on a low wall opposite Mike. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Needed a smoke."

"Yeah. Don't blame you."

There's a silence. Bill chews on a nail. 

"If we lose Butcher-" Mike starts.

"Don't. Don't say it."

"But if we did."

"But we won't. He isn't going to die." Bill's voice rises at the end, strangled.

"We'd lose Sisky too."

"You mean you think he'd-" Bill looks stricken.

" _No_ ," Mike says firmly, because he isn't going _there_ again, he wouldn't let one of his best friends dissolve so much, not this time. "I mean mentally. Can you imagine Sisk without Butcher, now?"

"He'd cope. He'd be okay."

"Sure."

"But yeah, he'd. He'd be all... lost."

Mike nods. Bill's hiding his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Mike puts a hand on his shoulder and says nothing, because nothing he can say is good enough. He scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the brick. 

Behind them, the door opens again and someone shuffles behind them. Mike moves away from Bill and slides down the wall opposite him, staring up at Michael as he sits down next to Bill.

Bill is in Michael's hug before Mike really sees it, and Michael's stroking his hair and soothing him. Mike feels bad because that's what he should've done, but instead, as usual, it's fallen to Michael. 

He pulls out his cigarette packet out and lights up another cigarette, the last one still glowing on the ground beside him.

"Reckon I could do with one myself," Michael laughs, only it's that laugh where he's crying too. 

Mike laughs because if Butcher could see them all now crying about him when he's not even dead, and worrying about how Sisky would be if he did die even though he isn't going to die, he'd call them all a bunch of dicks and Sisky would tease them to death. 

Then he's crying too because they really are a bunch of dicks and Butcher, Butcher is just going to have to be _fine_. 

*

The surgery seems to take forever. They don't even get to see Butcher before he goes down. Sisky is curled up in one hard orange seat, systematically biting off all his nails. Mike has no idea what time it is, because there are no windows so he can't tell by the daylight and his cell phone is out of charge, so he can't check that either.

Finally, eventually, a female nurse comes through with a sympathetic smile and tells them that "Mr Mrotek is comfortable in recovery now." 

Sisky makes a noise like an animal, puts his arms up over his face. Mike watches his hands curl into fists, both of them. Dan hugs him. It's like Butcher is both in there recovering and out here with Sisky.

"Thank god," he can hear someone saying, over and over again. "Thank god, thank god."

But when Mike looks at Michael, he's silent, mouth pressed to the curve of William’s head. It’s him, Mike realizes. He's the one who's saying it, relief evident in his tone.

"Thank god, thank god," he repeats, and Michael lifts his head to say it too.

"Thank God," his voice leads Mike's, stronger. "Thank God."

"Thank god," William says, shakily. He untangles himself from Michael and comes to Mike. He knots their hands, so tight it aches. Mike wonders for a second if he's bruising William's hand. He doesn't want to.

Sisky makes that awful sound again, and William lets go. He wants to go to Sisky but Dan won't give up his place, rocking Sisky back and forth.

"Thank god," Sisky says, in a harsh dry sob. "Thank you."

*

Later, when Mike ducks out for another cigarette, he's surprised to find Michael trailing him.

"What was that about?" he asks.

"What?" Mike says, feigning innocence.

"That whole thank God thing. The thing you've been telling me for the last however long that you didn't believe in."

Mike shrugs and flicks his cigarette lighter. "It seemed like... Like a truth. Like that's what I had to say and we all had to know it."

"See? All you needed was a little faith!" Michael is so earnest, big blue eyes so innocent and charming but sometimes? Mike would really like to smack him in the face. This is one of those times.

"What?! The Butcher had to nearly fucking DIE for me to HAVE A LITTLE FAITH?!"

Michael blinks and steps backward. "No, that's not what I meant-"

"Sure SOUNDS like it, Michael."

"Well it's not, you're wrong, I'm sorry."

Mike glares.

"I'm sorry." Michael says it softer this time.

Mike knows what he was getting at. He stubs his cigarette out on the brick building, and takes a deep breath. "It's not faith, okay? You have faith, you're like the fucking faithiest person I ever met."

"I'm not sure that's really a word-"

"And I don't, okay? I really, really don't. I've tried, I tried so hard and I WANT to see it but I don't. You say God talks to you, you say that you have like a fucking personal connection and really, I get that, I see it in you but for me?"

"He just doesn't answer."

"He never fucking answered, dude."

"Until now."

Mike stares at Michael for a long time. In the past eighteen months, they've been on three continents, played 119 shows, slept in 34 different beds, and have changed guitar strings on 7 different guitars. Their bandmates are lovely people - truly, lovely, kind, honorable people that make Mike feel good, that make him feel cared for and listened to, and they even try not to flinch every time he says fuck anymore - but they, and Michael, still belong to a club that just doesn't make sense to Mike. "I can't believe that Butcher getting stabbed and having to have emergency open surgery is any kind of faith test, you know?

"Okay," Michael says, and there's a tinge of disappointment in his voice, although his face betrays nothing, as usual. "Okay. Just think about it, alright?"

"Sure," Mike says, and lights another cigarette.

*

"-So fucking stupid," Sisky's wavering voice says. "I can't fucking believe you."

Mike stops at the door. He puts his hand up, and then draws it back. Sisky keeps talking.

"I was in the other fucking room," he says. "You're su-such an idiot." 

Butcher makes a little shuffling stirring sound. "Don't tell me you wouldn't have done it too."

"Shut up!" Sisky snaps.

Mike doesn't want to look into the room. He knows what he'll see. Sisky's shaking hands and Butcher's face, still stained with exhaustion, all against a backdrop of sterile hospital machinery. Butcher's still recovering, just wants to sleep and rest and wake to Siska, sitting beside him. 

Sisky just wants to get mad. This is what happens when you're wrung out with worry and grief and exhaustion. Mike doesn't even blame him for his shuddering breath, the ache in his voice.

"Baby boy, I am too fucked up for this," Butcher says finally, voice dragging the words out. "Fuck."

"I thought I was going to lose you," Sisky says, tears thick in his voice now. "I thought I was fucking going to lose you."

"I'm not going anywhere, I promise you."

When Mike looks in, Butcher's got one hand on his shoulder. Sisky's sitting on the bed, and Butcher drags him down and in.

Mike leaves without saying anything. 

*

United needs them back out before Butcher's even out of the hospital. Lee takes Sisky and Dan home to Milwaukee to sleep. The next day Butcher and Sisky's families fly in and Mike catches a glimpse of Jason, he thinks, at the airport. He doesn't say anything, though. It's probably not him. It's been a long time since Mike lived in Chicago. 

Naomi picks them up and tells them about some volunteer work she's doing and the next day they fly out again. Less than twenty-four hours after Mike was standing in the cold hospital hallway, he's sweating under the lights on stage. Playing with United, he's gotten better, sharper. He's not struggling to keep up anymore, staring down at his guitar while Michael sings along with the crowd. He finds a point above their heads and stares out until he has to look over, has to see Michael's face.

Mike writes a song on tour, or rather the bones of a song. There are no lyrics. In his head, he calls it, Michael Taught Me How To Pray. It's a few scraped chords of thanksgiving.

Joshua listens to him play it, in a quiet corner back stage. He doesn't comment. He doesn't comment on the ones that follow, as the months go by.

*

"Phone call on line one for Dr. Fear!" one of his cousins calls from the kitchen, and Mike puts down his beer and picks up the phone. His dad doesn't mute the game, just waves an aggrieved hand toward the door.

"Hello?" Mike says, when he's got himself and his beer and the phone outside. He sits down on the front step to light a cigarette.

"Merry Christmas, Mike Carden," William says. "I'm a little shocked to see you're in Chicago. How's the family?"

"They're in Australia with their folks," Mike says, and then his brain catches up. "Oh. Familial. Wings?"

They meet for beer and wings at the same place they always do. Nothing changes in Chicago. The bar is dim and smoky and kind of right up Butcher's alley, although he's not there.

"He's resting," Sisky says when Mike asks. "He's really not up to full speed yet."

The last semester was a wash for him. "Lucky my folks didn't mind. The school was pretty cool too," Sisky says, and rolls his beer in his hands.

"Lucky you," Mike says, and tries to think of a way to make that sound better. "You know what I mean."

"I am lucky," Sisky says. It's silent at their table, just the buzz of the crowd around them.

"Adam's got lyrics," William says finally. "You should take a look."

"I've got some songs started," Mike says, faster than he meant to.

They wind up at William's place. He's back with Chrissie. She greets them warmly and goes to bed. William picks up two battered guitars. Sisky can kind of play, but it hurts a lot. He talks and Mike plays and William sings and then Sisky talks again.

Three days later they have seven half finished tracks and Mike realizes he hasn't seen the family he came to spend Christmas with in a day and hasn't showered in two. Butcher is sitting in the corner when he looks up.

"When'd you get here?"

"Tommy dropped me off," Butcher says, which is not really an answer. "Sounds good."

Mike tries hard to think himself out of the haze he's been in and finally says, "I think they're mostly about you."

"Mostly," Butcher agrees.

"How's that feel?" Mike asks, and Butcher shrugs and smiles, small and secret.

"They've been about me for a long time," he says. "At least this time he's admitting it."

Mike plucks out the chords to the chorus that goes, _Thank god there's something i can't afford to lose_. "How you feeling?"

"I could do some drumming," Butcher says. "If, you know, you knew someone who needed a drummer."

They talk about tracks and what needs to go where for a while. Sisky comes in with a tray of coffees and a brown paper bag of muffins.

"You should lay down the bass tracks too," he tells Butcher. "My hands aren't really up to it."

They take it easy with Butcher, because he’s still recovering and still a little weak, although his pallor isn’t deathly anymore. He could still stand to gain a little weight, so they all eat junk and drink nothing but milkshakes. 

"I like Sisky’s original bass lines," Butcher says, and even though they have a fight about it, spend the rest of the week saying things like, "Babe, you're not listening, I need you to listen to me," to each other, in the end, they wind up using the awkward painful bass tracks Sisky played the first time around for the tracks Mike brings home to Michael.

"Bloody hell," Michael says. He walks out of the room and straight into his guitar room. Mike spends two weeks hanging out with Naomi while Michael writes and plays and yells things like, "Tell me what this sounds like!" to them.

It's fun. Naomi bakes bread with him, tells him about Australia and Mike writes the bones of three more songs, little ones and she hums off-key things to them and he sends them to William who sends back text messages saying things like, ENOUGH MUSIC and TELL SISKY and TRYING TO HV BB FUCK OFF. 

Mike calls him after that one. "Really? Another baby?"

"Yes, really," he says. He sounds exasperated but he sends Mike an email full of lyrics when he hangs up. Mike sends it to Michael and to Butcher and they send it back to William with music and half-assed vocals and then two weeks later Sisky calls and says, "So you're playing on the West Coast when?"

"Ask Michael," Mike says, and then thinks about that. Michael won't have a clue. "I'll call you back."

"Hello?" Butcher says when he calls back, and Mike says, "Tony can meet everyone in Seattle if you guys can get William there for the eighteenth."

"Can do," Butcher says. "Busy?"

"Just played a show," Mike says. "Waiting for Michael to get out of the shower. You?"

"Making my baby boy dinner," Butcher says. "I wish you guys would swing through San Francisco."

"Not so much United's target demographic," Mike says.

Butcher laughs and he sounds like his old self. Scarred and older, but still the same guy. Mike feels good about that. 

In Seattle they go out for seafood and Tony says, "Bill gave me the tracks and I don't have the money to get you guys studio time. But if Pete hooks you up, I'll send you out with Cobra to tour it."

"That's not a lot of time," Mike says. 

"The tracks are done. You just need to record decent quality and cut the damn thing. Are you gonna play on the record?" he asks Sisky.

"Yeah but maybe acoustic versions live," Sisky says. "They won't need me up there, I can go sell merch or whatever."

"So you're gonna be there." 

Sisky nods. 

"We could draft Nash back in, on drums," Butcher says, one of the only things he's said all night. "I could go back on bass."

"Yes," Sisky agrees. "So I can sell merch and hang out with Cobra."

Tony eats his mussels and says, "Guys, is this a TAI record or is this William Beckett and Friends?"

"The Academy Is," William says.

"What does it sound like?" Mike asks.

"It sounds like a faith album," Tony says. "It sounds like you guys are talking about god."

Butcher takes Sisky's hand on the table. "It's been a long year," he says.

Tony goes back to Chicago the next day. Sisky and Butcher go home to San Fran so Sisky can go to class. Michael snores on Mike's shoulder all the way back to LA, while William entertains himself with the crossword and with telling Mike all the ways planes have failed in flight in the past year.

"Stop talking," Mike says, and William laughs at him and comes back to his house and takes over his bed.

"I'm taller," he explains, and then says, "Isn't it weird that Cobra will be headlining while we're supporting?"

"That's what Leighton Meester does for a band," Mike says, and feels only a slight pang of jealousy at that. 

The next day Bill emails Pete and then they wait.

Pete calls two days later and says, "Who all is in town?"

"Me. William. Chizzy," Mike says. "Beer?"

"Sounds good." There's a pause and then Pete says, "I listened to the tracks."

"What do you think?" Mike asks.

"See you in an hour," Pete says, and gives him directions.

*

Pete talks a little about Bronx and Ashlee and the new baby and a little about Atlantic and then talks a little about Mike's shoes and this great new book he's reading.

"What about the tracks, Pete," Mike says eventually. He's not actually all that in love with the experience of beer with Pete Wentz. The bartender keeps checking them out and the waitress has been bending over too far. Pete looks sick and uncomfortable when she manages to brush her tits over his arm. He's fucking married and has two kids, Mike wants to say. His wife is the shit, she's awesome. I realize I'm not famous but seriously I am the only single person at this table. 

"You guys wrote an album about God," Pete says finally.

"You write albums about yourself," Mike says. "At least God is an infinite topic."

"Some would argue I think I am God."

"Only your in-laws," William says. "Do you like it?"

"I love it. That's not the issue. William Beckett singing the spirituals?"

"The Academy Is talks about God," Michael corrects.

"Yeah, I know you guys are out with that Hillsong shizzle, but no. Decaydance makes music about partying and drinking and feeling-"

"It's United," Michael says defensively. "There's a difference."

No one pays attention to him. 

"Being a teenager and feeling shitty about yourself," Mike finishes instead. "Come on, Pete, you signed the Hush Sound."

"And no one got to hear them," Pete says bitterly. "Look, if you do this with me, no one will hear it."

"You mean no one will buy it," Mike says angrily. "And that's what it's about with you now." He stands up and walks out.

When William gets back, Mike has taken back his bed. Bill walks in without knocking, and says, "You know it's not like that."

"I call bullshit," Mike says. "I call fucking bull, it is like that. He thinks it won't sell and if he can't sell it, he won't help us make it."

"He's a business, man," William quotes at him. "Look, you know Pete's done a lot of good shit for us. For everyone we know. He'd help if he could."

"Fuck you," Mike says, and rolls over on his side. William sighs and Mike gets confused for a second, he half expects William to crawl into bed and whisper about how much he hates the Gap. He expects William to crawl into bed and tell him how good it'll be when they make it, thinks for a second they're still teenagers in a shitty room in a shared house in Chicago.

At least then we believed, Mike thinks, and for a second he's so homesick he can't breathe, but not for Chicago. Maybe for Sisky and the way he shut his eyes to listen when Mike taught him how to tune his bass, maybe for Tom's face when he heard William sing, maybe for the way Butcher used to play, when he joined the band. He thinks suddenly of Michael's face across the stage.

He's homesick for a moment he's been without, for an emotion that never lasts longer than the next song anymore.

* 

The next morning Mike finds Bill asleep cramped and awkward on the couch. He shakes him awake before the coffee's brewed and then drives him to the airport. They don't talk much, but what they say is pleasant. William talks about his family. Once it would have been destiny and desire for William. Once Sisky would have left the lyrics to other people. Now Mike has seven songs about watching Butcher sleep, about what it means to be so grateful you can't breathe. He has an album about something he never thought any one of them would think about.

On the way out of the airport he calls Gabe and says, "I need some advice."

"It'll probably clear up in time, Santi. Don't tell the girl, she'll just worry."

"When are you in LA next?" Mike asks, ignoring him. "Come over."

Gabe shows up the next week and comes over and when Mike tells him how he needs advice on re-mortgaging to sell a record, Gabe takes off his hat and fumbles around until he finds the spare glasses William left behind. He's always losing things. Gabe looks at them fondly.

"I feel smarter already," he says, slipping them on. He squints and takes them off again. "Ow. Show me the numbers."

Mike shows him the numbers and puts the shitty demo on. Gabe sits on his couch and drinks coffee and takes notes and finally says, "Okay, here's what you can do."

Mike walks into his bank the next week and says everything Gabe told him to. He walks out with a brand new mortgage and goes straight to Michael's place.

"We better make an album," he says, "Or I'm going to lose my condo."

*

They make a record. Sisky's hand hurts and hurts and hurts and he gets as high as he can whenever he can and Butcher curls around him, kissing his neck.

"It's not like it was, though," Sisky says. "It's nothing like it was."

Mike has the sudden uneasy sense that none of them did right by Sisky, when it happened. He tells William and William shrugs.

"Butcher took care of him," William says, and pours Mike a glass of wine. He stays with Mike and they navigate around each other's moods awkwardly in the mornings and evenings. The other two stay at Michael's.

Butch works with them for a ridiculously low amount. He laughs and laughs and laughs and then hears the songs and stops laughing.

"You boys wrote a gay Christian rock album," he says admiringly. "I'm impressed."

"I think it's more like a praise album," Sisky says almost shyly. "Like a - I dunno."

Mike makes the mistake of telling them what he calls the song he wrote and played for Joshua, and they steal the title. It goes on the record as 'Michael Taught Us How To Pray'.

"It's our 'unFall Out Boy' Fall Out Boy title," William says. The song makes Michael blush.

It's the quietest album they've ever made. It's a late blue night album; it's an early golden morning collection of songs. There's so much less drama and strife than there's ever been. Mike tries not to be surprised.

It helps that Bill defers to him more on this one. It helps that Michael walks all over them when he has a thought or an idea or he and Butch look at each other and get over-excited.

Mostly it helps that Butcher calls break whenever Sisky starts to rub his hands together, gets a pinched look in his face. It helps that Sisky has a screaming fight with Butcher the second day they track drums, a fight where Butcher stands up and leaves his kit and walks over to the door like he's going to smoke, and then turns around and walks right up into Sisky's space.

Sisky goes to push him away and Butcher knots his arms around him, tangles his wrist in the fingers of one hand behind Sisky's back and won't let go. Sisky stops talking and buries his face in Butcher's neck.

"Are we done for the day?" William asks, and Butcher tries to nod but Sisky shakes his head, face in Butcher's neck. His hands are clutching handfuls of Butcher's tank top.

"Five minutes," he says, and they clear out for a few minutes. When they come back Sisky's head is bent. Butcher's face is close to his, like a kiss frozen in mid air. They step apart without speaking and everyone goes back to work.

*

Tony helps them release it. It's up on their website and out where ever Tony sends it and Mike watches with silent dread as it quietly does absolutely nothing at all.

"Wait," Naomi says. "Wait till you're out there, see what happens then."

Mike is kind of more scared of the tour with Cobra than he is of continuing to watch the record do nothing. This is because it's been decided - fuck knows by who - that Empires will be first support, then TAI, then Cobra. Everyone's acting like it's all fucking gravy, like they're not all way old friends who have fallen out and have somehow found themselves friends again. 

Then again, maybe everyone except he and Tom never stopped being friends in the first place.

Mike's not really ready and when he says as much to Michael while trying to say nothing, he gets a long steady look.

"Fuck off," Mike says. "It's hard, okay?"

Michael raises an eyebrow and says nothing and Mike packs his bag with the stinging feel of 'grow up' on his skin.

It's not as bad as he expected. At first it's worse.

Everyone is so friendly, dividing up into little groups of two or three. William and Sean are like a double act, Gabe and Sisky and Butcher talk all the time, Nate and Ryan and Nash form some kind of Drummers Support Group, and even Michael settles in with Max in quiet corners with two guitars and sweet low voices. 

Mike drives the van and stands outside to smoke and tries very very hard not to think. Tom lurks around the outside of his senses, the weight of history and hurt. Mike doesn't know what to say to him, and he tells Michael that.

"Thank you'd be a start," Michael says. "They're supporting us as much as they're supporting Cobra."

"Fuck," Mike says with no real feeling, and the next night during set up, he sidles close and says, "Thank you, you know."

"What?" Tom says, looks up from his pedals and the mess of cords he's made.

"Thanks," Mike repeats around this thing in his throat. "We owe you for this one."

Tom puts his head to one side and says, "Not just for this one," almost like he's testing Mike.

"Well," Mike says. "I owe you for a couple."

Things get better after that. He doesn't get comfortable, exactly, with Tom's new band, but Cobra are there too so it's not dreadful. There's nothing like saying you don't think one member is worth working with to put a group right the hell off you from the start. Empires runs shy of him, looks around him when he talks and avoids his eyes. One day Tom turns to him, raises the camera, and says, "Click."

Mike makes a face and that's when Tom takes the picture. "I thought we were past that," Mike says, and Tom grins at him, wolfish and then suddenly shy. He holds out the camera, wordless, and Mike shakes his head.

"Mike can barely make an iPod do what he wants," Sisky comments lazily. "I doubt he could operate that thing."

"I'll show you," Tom says, and he steps in, starts pointing at buttons and explaining.

"No, seriously," Mike says. "I can't-" and Tom frowns from the corners of his eyes, grey blue and always too serious. It's like a shock to Mike, like falling into something too cold and too clean to survive. "What do I do to take the picture? Just tell me that."

Tom shows him and then steps back, and the first picture Mike takes is him, moving backwards, staring too hard. He shows Tom, who makes his own face, and Mike gets that too.

Thank god everyone's so used to Tom lurking around getting pictures through a lens. He gets Ryan and Sisky, wrestling while Butcher shakes his head at them, and he gets William bent intently over coils of cables and equipment with Nate and Max, teaching them teching for themselves again. He finds Michael in a corner, bent over his guitar, and that's the first picture, his intent face, eyes low, and the next is his smile, too close, and the crooked corners of his eyes turned up to Mike's. He gets Tony again in the detritus of the small tour's paperwork, trying to get three vans home without running them on fumes, and Sisky at the merch table, smiling at people while he gives them change for bags and t-shirts and pins. He talks to them a lot, and Mike sees him pull out his set list and revise it once, for a girl whose hands shake while she talks and takes her change.

Butcher creeps up behind him, kisses his cheek and Mike tries to put the camera away, then, and that's when he gets lucky with the best shot of the night, low and in focus on Butcher's hand in the small of Siska's back.

That's the shot Tom stops on when he's flipping through them later, the mess Mike has made of trying to record touring again like this, small and dirty, the traffic lights and telephone poles mixed in with William at a truck stop, rummaging in the back of the van for soap before he and Sisky strip down to the waist and sponge off in filthy bathroom sinks. Tom makes a small somehow heavy sound over that picture of Butcher's hand, and Mike says quickly, "That was a fluke."

The rest are shitty, even for an amateur, and even that one only matters to someone who knows what the blue tattooed dates on Butcher's fingers are, even the sharp dark new one - 01/08, Sisky's birthday. Mike gets why Tom likes it though, suddenly - the pleasure of recording a scene without the pressure of trying to act in it. He doesn't say that, though, just leans into Tom when he steps too close, chest to the warm pressure of Tom's shoulder.

Tom's looking at him again, sharp and too insightful. Mike finishes with, "Thanks," and shuffles off.

 _I've been here before_ , he thinks later when Tom comes to find him outside the venue. _I've done this before_. He inhales and holds the smoke out to Tom and immediately wants to kick himself; Naomi keeps telling him he's got to stop coming off as a teenager or a psychopath when he's trying to pick someone up. Tom takes it and puffs and then flicks it off so they can watch it die slowly on the concrete.

When Mike looks up from it, Tom is too close and Mike wants to say, _We have got to stop meeting like this_ , but it's trite and not funny and not true. Whatever else has happened, he's missed meeting Tom this way.

When Tom kisses him, it's nicotine harsh and dry lipped and not apologetic at all, and Mike likes that. It's like time travel, like a trip back to the point when they were young and stupid and so crazy that even waking up felt good. Mike likes it. Mike kisses back.

After that tour goes by pretty fast, a tail spin of the new songs and the old songs and playing and not looking over at the empty spot Sisky should be in, instead looking out to find him at the back, looking up at them. It's a whirl of Tom and quiet making out and blow jobs in places where they could get caught but don't because one thing hasn't changed; they both still like to keep secrets from their bands. It’s good but it’s exhausting to keep the secrets, and one time Chiz almost catches them and that makes Mike’s breath catch hard in his throat, because he doesn’t want Michael to know, of all people. That’s fucking dumb but it’s true. Michael can’t know. 

In Las Vegas they play a venue one of the former Cab kids apparently owns; Mike is a little bit impressed with him. They would have never thought of that. They just made music and toured and now Butcher's edging his way to thirty and no one's mentioning it.

Jon and Spencer come out to the venue and so does Naomi, golden and smiling. She's even more tanned and dark on the window side from riding with it open and when Michael sees her he picks her up and spins her and buries his face in her hair and no one says anything until he looks up and says, "Mike, come say hallo to my wife."

Mike comes and Naomi puts her face up and kisses his cheek and his lips brush the corner of her jaw, landing lightly on her skin, when he hugs her. "You drove out?"

"I missed you," she says, and he doesn't say anything to that.

They play the show and the Cab mills around. Mike has a hard time separating the ones who are in the band from the ones that are out and the ones who are out but dating the ones who are in.

"I don't think they're dating," Sisky says. "I think Cash and Ian are just good friends."

"You can't tell me that kid's not fucking at least one person in this room," Mike says.

"No, I think he's fucking more than one person. I just don't think it's Ian."

"I'm pretty sure it's Paul," Alex says, and leans over. "Hey Cash, who in this room are you fucking?"

Cash looks up and leers and says, "Who in this room am I not fucking?"

"Me," say all three Alexes at once, and Ian blushes; Mike feels smug for a second. Cash laughs and shoves his shoulder affectionately and Ian shoves back. Mike likes that they give each other shit like that.

He wanders around the room for a while after the show and finally settles into a circle of Bill and Sisky and Butcher, a few of the Cab and Tom and Jon on the outskirts, turned more into each other than the group. Mike sneaks in beside Bill and listens until Michael brings Naomi in, holding her hand. Michael settles beside him and Naomi sits on his lap, rests her feet and ankles in Mike's lap and kicks off her heels.

"My feet ache," she says plaintively when he looks at her. "Mike."

"Fuck off, I'm not gonna rub your feet."

"But you're so good at it," she says imploringly, and makes a little pleased sound when he starts rubbing her ankles gently.

"Shut up," he warns her, and Michael grins smugly into her shoulder. Mike turns back to the conversation.

"Paul and you go too far back," one of the Alexes is explaining earnestly. "It's just too much history, no offense, Paul."

"I like history," Cash says, and leans into the former Cab member it does turn out he is fucking. "It's working out good for me."

"It's just, you know, too much history," the Alex argues. It's the one Bill likes best, the sincere one. "What are you gonna say when people ask how long you've been dating? You won't have a good answer."

"Fuck off," Ian says. "That's what we're gonna say."

"Hey Sisky, how long have you and Butcher been dating?" Cash says hastily the way people do when the subject's about to turn sour.

Sisky grins and puts his head back to look Butcher in the face and says, "Five years."

"Hey," Bill objects. "Hey, what, you count every minute? You can't do that."

"Sure I can," Siska says peaceably and the sincere Alex makes a little face, like, this is what I meant. "I can count every second since I met him if I want."

"Six years," Butcher says helpfully to Cash, and Bill snorts.

"Okay but you guys both dated other people, you fucked around, man, you had girlfriends in there."

"Doesn't matter," Siska says, and he leans back and Butcher slips his arms around Siska's waist. "We were still us. It doesn't matter if we were exclusive or fucking other people or just friends, we were still-" and he makes this little frustrated gesture between them. "We were still us."

"It doesn't work like that," Bill says, and Mike feels himself shake his head before he starts talking.

"I'm with Sisky," he says, and the skin of Naomi's ankles are smooth under his thumbs. "Love's like that. You can't count the days and you can't change it, and if you're just friends, you're just friends, and if you're just fucking, you're just fucking, and if something is meant to be, you might as well ride it out. Because you can't fight it, or change it, and there's no point in trying."

"Mike Carden the romantic," Michael says, and laughs.

Siska leans over and says, "Fuck yeah," and Mike raises his beer so they can clink their bottles together. "He's like a father to me."

"And don't you forget it," Mike tells him.

That night Tony tells them, "Cheap shitty hotels rooms are a Vegas specialty. If you assholes even think about going out, I'll kill you dead. Dead. Go to sleep. Ryan, I fucking mean it. I had a tracking device put somewhere on you. Leave and I will know."

"You're bluffing," Ryan says, but he starts nervously checking his belt and shoes. "I call bullshit."

"No," Tony says, and doesn't finish the sentence. Michael picks up his backpack and smiles at Mike and Naomi tugs him away. "Mike, you're on your own," Tony tells him, and he turns and raises an eyebrow at Tom, who looks at him for a long moment and then looks away.

That's odd, Mike thinks, and goes to his room and showers and falls into bed and doesn't hear a peep until morning when Tony knocks on the door and says, "Fucking breakfast, Carden, move your ass."

He goes to eat and throws his shit in the van and then catches Tom outside, smoking with Jon, avoiding food and drinking coffee from shitty Styrofoam cups, white and already damaged from waving them around. Tom's is bitten around the top, Mike notices before he says, "Hey. Tom. Talk to me a sec?"

Jon looks at him. He barely ever seems focused or coherent long enough to get their hate on, but it's for real a dirty look, an angry look, and Mike thinks, _What the fuck have I done to him lately_ , before he thinks, _well, Jon knows_. "Give us a second, Walker."

"It's cool," Tom tells Jon, and they walk three feet away and he goes inside, probably for more shitty coffee. Mike has the illusion of privacy at least.

"Where were you last night?" he asks, and Tom looks down and his feet and takes out another cigarette. Mike lights one of his own and then lights Tom's too.

"I liked what you said," Tom says finally. "Last night, I liked what you said about, you know. You can't help it, if you're friends or fucking around or, you know."

"Thanks," Mike says, and stares at him, and that's when he gets it; Tom's hands are shaking.

Tom's not just fucking around. This isn't just casual for him, not the way it is for Mike.

"I gotta go," Tom says, and gives up and drops the cigarette and follows Jon. Mike grinds it out with his foot and thinks, _Shit_.

He doesn't get Tom alone for three days and everything fucking sucks until then. Mike drives and his hands ache and he grits his teeth and makes William cry by accident, which is kind of impressive and kind of godawful.

"Whatever the fuck it is, fix it," Michael tells him. Words to live by, Mike thinks, and he finds Tom alone one night after tear down, without knowing exactly what he's going to say.

Tom is wearing a ratty old hoodie under a wool coat. Mike is pretty sure the hoodie is Jon's and the coat is Sean's and that it's Ryan's scarf, but whatever works for them. He looks at Tom, tired and leaning against the wall and not looking especially excited at all to be having this conversation, to be seeing Mike's face, and says, "I'm sorry I hurt you."

Tom doesn't say anything, doesn't say anything, and then finally looks up at Mike and bites his lip on whatever was coming. "I think," he starts, and stops. "I think this time around, I was hurting myself. I knew where you stood."

"I don't think that's how this works," Mike says, and his heart aches. 

"It's my fault," Tom says. "I gave you me, but I don't think you wanted it."

"That's not true," Mike says desperately. 

"Not in the same way." 

Mike stares, wishing stupidly that he did feel the same way. Tom shrugs and walks past him and the rest of the tour, three more dates, are as cold and silent and unpleasant as they've been since Vegas.

Mike wants to say something like, _I'm sorry for this one. I'm sorry for all of them. I'm sorry that we're not on the same page_. He wants to apologize for the collision of intent and action. He wants to make I'm sorry mean something.

But really it means nothing. He's been careless with Tom's heart, and it's worse, to him, than the first time around when he was wasteful and hurtful with it.


	3. Chapter 3

The album doesn't sell. Tony's got thousands of the fucking things in his living room and they just don't shift.

"I know," Tony says. "But it's been downloaded, iTunes and shit."

"Yeah," Mike says. "And pirated how many times?"

"Yeah, I know."

"If people cared enough, they'd buy it. They'd buy the fucking thing and they'd look at the fucking inlay."

"I know."

"Stop fucking saying 'I know', Tony, and _sell my album_."

"Sometimes, Carden, you can be a complete jerk," Tony says, and hangs up.

Mike blinks away angry tears. He's fucking heartbroken. This is one of the best things they've ever done and no one _cares_. It isn't that long since they were last together. People are still interested in William's music. They even download the acoustic shit Butcher gives away free on his website. So why don't they care about this? Why does Mike feel like he's the only one who does?

There's a stack of CDs on his kitchen counter and he's so angry, disgusted by the futility of them, that he sweeps them all on to the tiled floor, hearing the plastic crack.

He's crying but he doesn't care, he's tired and hurt and fucked off with the fucking world, so he does what he always does when he feels like this and takes himself to bed. He takes an herbal pill and falls asleep quickly.

When he wakes up it's 7am and he texts Tony, apologizing. Then he pads into the kitchen for coffee and, having forgotten about the broken cases, gets a plastic splinter in the bottom of his foot. It bleeds and it hurts a fucking lot and Mike bandages it up as best he can, then starts to clear up the mess. It serves him right. The pain in the ball of his foot every time he takes a step reminds him of that.

Butcher would say it was instant karma but then, Butcher can be kind of an ass at times.

*

Mike loses the house. He knew it was coming but it still sucks, packing up stuff and looking for cheap rent and talking to his parents about moving home, and Michael says, casually, "We've got a spare room."

So he moves his stuff and his life into their house, their lives, sets up his shit and stores things and sends some stuff home to sit in his folks' basement.

"I don't understand why you can't just move home," his dad says. "Jimmy has work for you."

"I don't need work," Mike says. 

"How are you doing for money, anyway? Not paying your friends any rent, I bet."

Mike resists the urge to growl. He hates how his dad can wind him up like this. He wants to say, _My friends want me around_. He wants to say, _I'll make some fucking money and it won't involve working construction for your friend_. He wants to say, _Stop comparing me to your friends' sons who are all doctors or teachers or middle managers but who aren't happy because they aren't following their dreams_. He wants to say, _Just for once, be fucking proud of who I am and all that I've achieved_. He doesn't say any of these things. "I'm doing okay," he says. 

His dad doesn't sound convinced and Mike makes his excuses and hangs up. 

Naomi looks sympathetic and passes him a piece of toast. Mike shrugs. There's nothing he can say to her. He's made his choice and he's staying here in LA. 

There are good things for him here. 

*

Mike's got tight hold of the remote control and Michael's trying his hardest to get it. He keeps snatching at it when he thinks Mike's not looking but Mike is looking, despite having one eye on the basketball, and he just laughs instead. Michael keeps stretching across him and he smells of home, like laundry detergent and warmth. Mike likes it, maybe a little too much.

They're arguing quietly over the game and Naomi sighs loudly from behind them. Mike doesn't really notice but Michael frowns at her and asks what's up.

"You're so bloody married," she says. "Like an old married couple."

"We are not," Mike says. "If we were married he'd stop whining about the game."

"If we were married I'd make you do your own bloody washing," Michael retorts.

"Oh fucking quit whining about laundry!" Mike says, poking Michael in the stomach. "Obsessed, you're obsessed-"

"SHUT UP!" Naomi shouts. She's loud but her tone isn't that harsh. She gets up, stomps around and straddles Mike's lap.

Mike frowns at her. "What the fuck?" He doesn't touch her but she's very - close.

She says, "I'm very tired of having two husbands and only sleeping with one."

"Naomi..." Michael says helplessly.

Mike is quiet for a second and then he puts his hands up and pushes them into her hair, cradles her face. He doesn't look her in the eyes, though. His hands are gentle like the way a man touches the wing of a bird in his hands, gentle and yearning, but it's Michael he turns to look in the eyes.

Michael just shrugs and makes a vague gesture like "Go ahead" and it's so fucking _Australian_ that Mike could kick him for it. He doesn't need vague gestures, he needs fucking direction, because Michael's wife is sitting in his lap like she'd like to be there a good while, and Mike would like to know what to do about it.

She leans down and kisses him, or, he leans up and kisses her, either way, it doesn't matter because her _tongue_ is in Mike's _mouth_ and he can't remember the last time he kissed a girl, so.

Michael's hand is tucked between her knee and Mike's hip, stroking over both of them, and she breaks off the kiss to lean across to kiss Michael, but her hand is on Mike's stomach, thumb rubbing over his skin. Mike's hand falls when she leans over to Michael, but it falls on to her thigh, which is way too close and way too tempting. She's wearing the leggings she wore to work out in earlier and they fit close on her thighs and Mike is a gigantic pervert because he rubs both hands over her thighs while she's kissing Michael.

When she finally pulls away from Michael she looks Mike straight in the eyes, and there's a note of challenge in her expression. He blinks first and bites his lip. Of course he _wants_ , she can probably tell how much he wants because really, it's been a while. She leans down and kisses him once, just softly, closed lips, out of love not lust. Then she reaches and pulls her shirt over her head and drops it behind her, revealing a basic black sports bra, which doesn't surprise Mike in the slightest, because of course she's just all plain black underwear.

She kisses him again firmly but sweetly, her body pressed down against him now. She must be able to feel how turned on he is. She reaches between them and palms him. He moans involuntarily, loudly, and then feels stupidly embarrassed. Naomi doesn't move, just keeps touching and kissing. Michael laughs into Mike's shoulder and shifts even closer. Mike keeps touching the both of them, just their thighs, but he can't tell where one starts and the other ends. 

He closes his eyes. Then lips are on his, rougher than Naomi's. Michael kisses like he means it, like he's suddenly been allowed to and has realized how much he wants to. When they finally pull apart, Michael's lips are bitten red and his eyes are clouded with lust.

"Bed?" Mike says eventually. Neither of them will ever say it, he knows that. 

It's fucking weird to be following Naomi upstairs. She keeps a hold of his hand, only dropping it once she's in the bedroom. She starts to get properly undressed. Michael closes the curtains and switches the bedside lamp on, taking care of the practicalities. 

Mike wonders if Michael always does that and it feels like both too much information and like something he should know. He's about to back out, about to go back downstairs and salvage what they can of their friendship, when Naomi comes over to him, stark naked, and puts her arms around him to pull him into a kiss. 

He can't help but touch her. He picks her up, hands under her thighs. She falls backwards on the bed and he follows, knees either side of her.

"Clothes off, mate," she says quietly, fingers on his buttons. 

He stands up back up and it's weird again because Michael is sitting sedately at the end of the bed, watching. _This is my bandmate_ , Mike thinks, _one of the people I'm closest to in the entire world and I'm about to fuck his wife. Aren't I? Am I?_. Mike shakes his head, unsure of himself, but then Naomi pulls back the covers and gets into bed, leaving the sheets down invitingly for him. Mike begins to undress, slowly. Michael does too, the other side of the bed. He's faster and he slides under the covers behind Naomi and kisses her neck, moving locks of blonde hair out of the way to do so. 

Then they both look up at him, trustingly. They both really do want to do this.

Okay then.

Mike gets under the covers, shivering slightly against the cool cotton. Naomi is warm against him and he dips his head to kiss her collarbone, her nipples, and her stomach.

Michael touches her first, pushes fingers inside her. She bites her lip and tips her head back against him. Mike does nothing, just watches them. He has imagined this before, if he's honest. He shares a house with them; he hears them fuck. He has imagined it. It was nothing like this. 

Naomi pulls Mike's hand back towards her. She's soft as he runs his hand up her thigh and stomach. He can't help it when his hand goes to Michael's and then he's touching her too, watching Michael carefully over her shoulder. Michael's expression doesn't change. 

Naomi moans beneath them. 

When Mike says, "Condom?" before he gets way too carried away, Naomi quickly shakes her head.

Michael looks less convinced. 

"I have some," Mike says, moving away from them both slightly, ready to go find one.

"No," Naomi says vehemently.

"Okay, it's right," Michael says, and that's it, end of discussion.

Mike gets that they trust him. He wouldn't be doing this if they didn't. They trust him to be clean and to care about their health, and they trust that he'll be open with them if the need arises.

He is clean.

Naomi is soft and yielding and she tilts up towards him. Mike is careful, resting above her, hardly daring to move. She looks at him and he looks at her and nobody moves. 

Then Michael's hand is between them, gentle, prompting Mike to move, and he does. 

Mike is somewhat surprised when Naomi comes, arching her back up towards him, fingers rough on his shoulders. Surprised, but in a good way. 

After they're all cleaned up, they all get back into the bed, sheets tangled. No one says much. Mike turns away to sleep, because he always does, but he can feel Naomi's breath on the back of his neck.

It's comforting. 

*

When Mike wakes up, he's alone in the bed and it takes him a moment to realize where he is and to remember what happened. 

He throws on casual clothes back in his own room, and brushes his teeth in the bathroom. He can hear the vacuum running downstairs and something that might be a CD or might be Michael playing a guitar. He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and tells himself to man up and get the fuck downstairs. 

Naomi is vacuuming the couch, with the cushions off it so she can get into the nooks and crannies of it. Usually she does this when she's pissed off, so Mike's stomach lurches because he thinks she's annoyed, and oh fuck he'll have to find somewhere else to live, apart from anything, but then she turns to him with a wide smile. 

"Morning love," she says, like nothing's changed between them. "Coffee?"

"Sure."

As she comes past she kisses him on the lips, like she does with Michael. 

_Is that it?_ Mike thinks. _We fucked and her husband was there and involved and now - what? We're what? How are we?_

There's nothing forthcoming from Naomi or, later, Michael, so Mike sits and watches TV and tries not to drive himself crazy thinking about things. 

It's a couple of days later before Mike says anything. In those days they've danced around each other, maybe been more physical than they'd usually be, but nothing sexual has happened and Mike has jerked off three times just thinking about it. 

He's foraging in the fridge for food when they both come in, chatting idly. Mike starts in surprise and bangs his head, jostling all the bottles in the door.

He rubs his head and straightens up. "Fuck."

Naomi clucks sympathetically. 

Mike stands against the counter, eating small tomatoes one at a time. It's an effort to swallow them. "We ever gonna talk about it?"

Michael is standing next to him, close enough to touch if they wanted to. He drums his fingers on the cabinet. "What do you want to say?"

"Did we make a mistake?"

"Do you think we made a mistake?" Naomi asks. 

"Will you quit answering my questions with questions?" Mike growls, and then feels bad. 

"I don't think we made a mistake," Naomi says softly. "I think we all feel the same way about each other."

Mike nods, swallows another tomato. "So... we're in - this - now?"

"Yeah," Naomi says.

"Definitely," Michael says.

"Huh," Mike says. 

Naomi nestles herself in his arms, her arms around his waist, her head on his chest. Michael turns and rests his arm around Naomi and presses his forehead to Mike's temple. Mike's reminded of how Michael prays with the United folks before shows, and he almost laughs, but that would ruin the mood and he isn't that fucking dumb. 

Michael kisses his cheek, just once, and that's it. 

*

Mike is fucking pissed. He hates everything and he hates everyone he knows and he especially hates Michael and Naomi, who are kind of his partners now, but kind of not, and it's weird and no one talks about it. Right now Mike really hates how they won't talk about it. 

Naomi's making sandwiches and she offers to make Mike one.

"Don't like your sandwiches. They're all foreign," Mike mumbles.

"Just because she buys _proper bread_ ," Michael grouches. He has this big thing about how sugary American sliced bread is and he won't eat it, unless it has honey or Nutella on it, something sweet. Instead they buy hand-baked stuff and cut it themselves, and Mike has to agree, it's pretty good. Only he can't agree now because he's too busy being pissed off at the world.

"A sub," Mike says. "I could eat a sub."

They both wisely ignore him. Naomi flits around the kitchen opening doors and the fridge. When she does, Mike grabs a beer and goes into the lounge with it. Michael makes tea and brings a cup through for Mike with his own and his sandwich. Mike even manages to frown at that because he used to be a coffee person and now he's a fucking tea person and knowing Michael it's probably _camomile_ just to calm him down.

It is.

"I hate you," Mike announces, taking a sip anyway.

"Feeling's mutual," Michael says cheerfully, nudging Mike's thigh with his knee.

"And your fucking sandwich stinks."

"Cheese and pickle, Carden. The food of kings."

Mike frowns at it suspiciously. The bread is granary, with fucking seeds and shit in, something Michael and Naomi are both fully appreciative of. The cheese is vegan, as per usual, but it's the good stuff, sharp cheddar. Mike's stomach rumbles traitorously. He glares at it.

The pickle is something Mike never had before he moved into the Chislett household. It's not American; they always bring it back over from the UK with them or get someone to send some if they're getting desperate. It's one of those weird habits Michael picked up in London. It's not pickles, not like Mike would know the word. He can remember the first time it was offered and Mike expected small green preserved vegetables and found something quite different in the jar instead. This is tiny bits of vegetable, diced, in a tangy dark sauce. It's like alchemy or something because Mike thinks it sounds disgusting, but it's good, especially with cheese or ham.

Michael's grinning gleefully. "Hungry?"

"No."

"Sure? It smells good, right?" Michael picks up half his sandwich and wafts it under Mike's nose. Mike's reminded of living at home with his siblings, when they'd tease each other like this.

He does what he would have done to them, too, and snaps his teeth together in a bite. Michael's too quick though and he pulls the sandwich away, laughing.

"Fucker," Mike says.

Michael does it again, and Mike's considering whether punching him in the face would be a step too far, so he closes his fingers around Michael's wrist to stop it still and takes a decisive bite of the sandwich.

"Just eat it all why don't you!" Michael protests.

"Don't tease me!"

"Stop being a miserable prick!"

"I am _not_!"

"Are. Yes you are. We both agree. You're being miserable."

"Quit talking about me!"

"Have to talk about something. Might as well be you."

"Gimme your fucking sandwich and shut up being all... Michael... about it."

Michael just smirks, like he thinks he's won, only Mike doesn't even know what the battle was. He doesn't relinquish the sandwich, not properly; he just breaks it up into more pieces on the plate and passes them over to Mike one at a time.

When Naomi comes in and curls up in the chair, her own sandwich on a plate too, she grins at Mike, in that knowing wife way that she has down to a fine art. "Would you like one?" she asks when she's done eating.

"I'd like one!" Michael pouts. "I'd like a whole sanger all to myself."

Naomi laughs and makes another one, just one, cut in half, doorstep thick with cheese and pickle and the good bread. She gives it to Mike and he pats her thigh in thanks while she's standing there. She's going out so she goes to get ready, leaving Mike breaking off bits of sandwich for Michael, and Michael skipping channels on the TV.

Mike puts the plate in the kitchen when they're done, and goes back into the lounge. He stands over Michael and Michael looks up, confused. Mike leans down, resting on the couch's arm, and kisses Michael to say sorry for being a miserable bastard.

He knows he's forgiven when Michael pats the seat next to him and tells him to move his arse from in front of the TV.

*

When Sisky and the Butcher find out they nod, and look at each other. 

"You owe me five bucks," Butcher says to Sisky eventually.

"Damn it," Sisky says. 

"You _bet_ on me?" Mike frowns at them.

"Yeah. Like. A zillion years ago. I knew you all were hot for each other."

"You did not know that, fuck you."

"Did," Butcher says. "I knew you'd all end up in some weird polyamory thing, I knew it."

"It's not weird, fuck you very much."

Butcher grins and slings an arm around Mike. He's teasing. 

"What isn't weird?" William asks, skidding to a stop near them with a whiskey and Coke in hand. 

"Mike and Michael and Naomi and how they're all in love," Sisky says, before Mike can. Little fucker. 

"They're what?" William narrows his eyes at Mike.

"In loooooooooove!" Sisky singsongs. He's holding Butcher's hand and he swings it like a five year old. 

Mike shrugs. "Just kinda happened."

"I see," Bill says, all tight-lipped.

Great. Just what Mike needs, Bill pissed at him. 

"Alright," comes a voice from the stage. "Thank you all for coming."

The lights go down and no one has a chance to say anything else, but Mike can feel William's eyes on him all through Butch's set. 

*

Mike's trying not to go smoke and trying to figure out what the hell is going on with the sound and he knows at least one of his two ambitions is bound to fail. He can tell it's off but not how or why. Joshua has the same problem. At least the sound guy is listening to them as they try to get it across. 

"It's like a buzz," Joshua says.

"It's like a hum," Mike corrects.

"Like a humming buzz," Joshua says pleasantly. "You right bastard."

"A buzzing hum," Mike admits, and they grin at each other. He's lucky he's got Joshua. Most of the other techs think he's kind of an intense asshole and avoid him. Mike can't blame them, because it's true. Joshua doesn't seem to care though.

They solve it: some fucked up wiring that Joshua thinks he can get fixed before the show, although it's going to be cutting it close.

"It's probably all that rocking out you're doing, anyway," Joshua says. "All your American rock and roll."

"Fuck you," Mike says, and they laugh. If anything Mike's one of the most sedate guys on stage.

"Mike!" Michael sounds tense and angry and when Mike looks up he's walking toward him fast. "Get your guitars, get your shit. We're going."

"We're what?" Mike says, and Joel comes barreling behind Michael.

"Michael," he says. "Come on."

"Fuck off," Michael says to him. He turns around and glares into Joel's face. "Mike!"

Mike gives up and fumbles for his smokes and heads over. Joel glares at him and Michael stands there. "Hey," Mike says, "Hey, come on."

Michael spins and jabs two fingers into his face. He's furious, operating on pure rage and Mike's never seen him do that before and hopes to never see him do that again. "For once in your _bloody_ life, don't argue with me."

Mike puts away his smokes and does it. He's packing up guitars and Joshua is uncoiling cables while Joel is still trying to talk frantically to Michael. Michael's shaking his head, frowning, not discussing whatever Joel's got on the table.

Mike pulls his phone out and texts Naomi. "There's a cab on the way. We done?"

"We're done," Michael agrees, and he walks away from Joel, walks away from the conversation. They pull their shit out of the bus and throw it in the back of the cab. And that's how they leave the only paying gig they've got.

Naomi has made them pasta, it's garlicky and redolent with pesto and she grabs them beer as soon as they sit down at the table. She eats with them and whatever it is, she doesn't say a word of protest, she doesn't comment on what Michael has done.

Mike has commentary. Mike has lots of commentary but when he says, "What the hell?" Michael just looks over at him.

"Just eat," he says, sounding tired. "Please, Mike."

Mike just eats. He gets up and does dishes for Naomi. The dishwasher broke while they were gone and he's going to have to take a look at it.

It's frustrating. Naomi used to have a guest room and a working dishwasher. Now she has Mike and Michael and a stack of CDs that Mike is really starting to think no one will ever buy. She had a savings account and none of them are talking too often about money but Mike's living in her spare room and taking up her life and slowly things are adding up.

"I'll call Tony and see if he can find us anything," Mike says when he's done and Michael's sitting exhausted at the table. "Sisky's done with exams soon, we'll do a few shows with them, we'll be fine."

"We'll be great," Naomi says, and she comes into the kitchen and leans over Michael. She wraps her arms tight around him.

"Not great," Michael says, and reaches up to touch her hair, leaning over him. He's still looking at Mike. "Not great, but I'm sure we'll be ok."

They go to bed but Mike stays up to watch TV and finish his beer. He can hear quiet voices but he doesn't bother trying to listen. Michael will tell him when it's time for him to know.

He wakes up the next day on the couch and someone has covered him with a blanket. Mike sits up and pads into the kitchen. He makes coffee and Naomi comes out to drink it beside him.

"Slept on the couch again?"

"Should have woken me," he says. "He still asleep?"

Naomi shakes her head. "Joel showed up." She drinks her coffee. She's pretty ideal at silence when she wants to be, when it's called for. "He's outside."

There's a sound on the porch and a door opens.

"- question me, question my fucking life and my goddamn wife," Michael says, and Mike flinches from the anger in his voice. "How dare you?"

"You bring home a man who follows your wife around like-" Joel starts, and Mike stares down into his coffee. He doesn't look up. "Michael, be reasonable, the poor bloke's in bloody love with her. Be reasonable to Naomi, she's got him living in her house."

Naomi tenses and Mike puts his arm around her without thinking and that's when Joel and Michael come into the kitchen, of course. Of course, of course. Naomi turns her back to Joel like she's trying to protect Mike, cover him with her own skin.

"Man, it's not like that," Mike says aloud. "Michael-"

"Get out of my house." Michael doesn't turn around until it's finished. "Joel, you're upsetting my wife, you're upsetting my - our friend, you've got nothing to say you haven't already told me. Get out."

"Ah hell," Joel says, slow and helpless. "Naomi, I didn't mean to. I didn't."

"Go to hell," Naomi says levelly. "Get out."

"Stop it," Mike says, and pulls his arm away. "The guy's one of your oldest friends, fucking stop it."

Joel looks at him like he might be grateful. Michael's still glaring but he's glaring at Mike now. Mike salutes him with his coffee.

"If this conversation's done, I'll just take my coffee outside."

Naomi follows him and he hears Michael say almost gently to Joel, almost desperately, "It's not the way you think."

"No, I know," Joel says, like he's got it, like he gets it, and when Mike looks back he sees Joel watching him, watching them. "Michael, I get it now."

They go back to finish the tour. Everyone's quieter than they were; they all know. People talk to Mike less, but they seem to like him more.

One time, Joshua says, "You know, I never really understood the Bible until I fell in love."

Mike isn't paying attention but this makes him sit up. "Huh?"

"We get taught, right, when we're young, about how love is the greatest commandment, right?"

"Right," Mike says, wondering where this is going and trying to wake up any residual theological opinions he might hold. 

"Love your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind," Joshua quotes. "This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is this: Love your neighbor as yourself. Matthew 22."

Mike nods vaguely again. 

"But I never understood it. Sure, I suppose I loved God, but I didn't love him with all my heart and soul and mind."

"Right."

"But then I met Sarah and I fell in love and I understood, I understood how you could love someone so much that it meant you kinda loved everybody else, too. I loved God more and I loved my parents more and I loved my neighbor more, even if he bugged me, you know?"

Mike does know. He knows that this is Joshua's way of telling him it's okay. He appreciates it. He nods again. "I know."

"Love is... Well, it seems to me like, like maybe you get a little love and it just grows exponentially, it grows and grows and you give a little love and as long as you're loved back you're okay." Joshua is concentrating on a cable, taping it to the floor neatly. He doesn't look at Mike. "You get a little love and you give a little love and wherever it comes from, it's right."

Mike claps his shoulder. "Thanks, man."

"You're welcome," Joshua says, eyes still on the floor. "More than welcome."

*

Naomi calls when Mike's in the bathtub.

"Is it hot and steamy?" she asks. Her voice drops like it does when she's trying to be sexy. Mike likes it even though it's pretentious, he likes her little hitch that she gets when she's turned on. "Is it romantic?"

"Fuck, I don't even remember what romantic looks like," Mike says. He doesn't.

Michael and him, they don't touch when they're on tour with United, or the little sparse shows Tony gets them with the guys. Mike isn't sure what the hell that means. He's alright with it though. He's not like Sisky or Butcher, who blurred the lines before they even drew them in. He likes the delineation of when he can touch and when he can't, when it's okay and when it's not.

They don't touch now, with Naomi visiting her mom in Australia. Mike's been padding around the empty spaces with Michael, waiting to get back on the road and know where he stands. Hillsong still pays their bills, even if it means he can only half glance at Michael and never touch.

"Gimme to him," she says at the end and Mike wraps a towel around his waist and goes to give the phone to Michael. He's making a sauce in the kitchen, probably so he can pretend to Naomi that they're eating real food, and he feeds Mike a spoonful while he takes the phone.

Mike eats it and goes back to the bath and twenty minutes later, Michael knocks.

"Yeah?"

"Naomi wanted me to pass a message on," Michael says. "Lemme in?"

"Door's open," Mike says. Michael comes in and for an odd moment Mike gets the urge to cover up. "What's up?"

"She wanted me to tell you I miss you," Michael says, and his voice is low and desperate and hungry. His feet are bare on the cold tiles. "Mike-"

"I'm right here," Mike says, and sits up in the bath. "Michael, I'm right fucking here."

Michael steps into the room and into the tub. He's still dressed, still wearing his threadbare jeans and Mike's old Pumpkins t-shirt but Mike still tugs him down by his belt loops, the neck of the t-shirt until Michael's straddling him carefully and Mike can finally, finally kiss him.

Michael hasn't touched him since Naomi left and this kiss is so good, open mouthed and dirty and needy like Michael never ever is. Mike wants it so fucking badly, Michael's weight on his thighs, his still clothed chest to Mike's.

The jeans are soaking through and Michael must be cold but he still lets Mike push his t-shirt up and off. Mike keeps kissing him and kissing him, his perfect face and mouth.

"Bed," he says finally, "Come on, bed." Michael's t-shirt has been dropped beside the bathtub. They're being careless again.

Michael shakes his head and they keep kissing and Michael's hard against him. Mike's never understood self-denial. He touches Michael's chest, his skin, the hard line of his shoulder and then put his teeth to the soft skin of Michael's neck. Michael moans and Mike wants to say shh but there's no reason to, they can make all the noise they like. So he does it again, again and again and again, coaxes that noise from Michael.

"Let me," he says finally, "Let me." 

Getting Michael's wet jeans off is a fucking pain. They cling and Michael makes a disgusted face as Mike peels the wet fabric away from his skin, gets them undone and open and gets his hand in. 

"Oh," Michael says, bucks up into his hand. "Oh Christ, Mike."

"Shh," Mike says, tugs Michael's face into his shoulder. "It's ok, it's fine, just let me."

Michael lets him. Michael sighs into his neck and kisses there while Mike works him over and gets him off and after Michael comes, he slumps forward in the water, into Mike.

"You're fine," Mike says. "It's fine. Come on, let's get out of here."

When Michael steps out and kicks off his jeans, peels off the wet underwear, Mike stands reaches out helplessly for him, steps out of the bath to hold Michael against him, back to his chest. His dick is still hard and Michael makes a questioning sound. He turns in Mike's arms.

Mike tries to reach for a towel but Michael won't let him, hands on his face and back. They walk down the hall and Mike's naked but Michael won't take his hands away, won't leave Mike for long enough for him to grab a towel. Michael's walking backwards, kissing Mike like he means it finally, or like he's meant it all along.

They wind up in bed and Mike's still wet and the air feels too cool but it's good.

"I-" Michael's hands are restless on his chest, lying face to face in bed. This is the closest they've been since Naomi left. They don't do this without her, but now here they are. "Bloody hell."

"Relax," Mike says. "Jesus Christ."

"Fuck me," Michael says, and starts to blush. "I know you want to."

"Shit," Mike says, and drops a hand to his still hard cock. "Fuck, really?"

"I know you want to," Michael repeats. "And I want you to."

"Yeah, okay," Mike says. "Okay."

Naomi keeps some kind of oil in the drawer and Mike's willing to bet it's not ideal but it says that you can eat it so he feels pretty confident. And Michael's easy about it, he might not know what he's doing but he draws his leg up and lets Mike kiss him and it's really fucking good just with his fingers, hot and tight and comfortable.

"Just relax," Mike says finally. "Try to relax."

"I don't know if you're ever been on this side of it," Michael pants, "But I've - ohh!"

"Oh," Mike imitates back at him. "Oh? Is that good?"

Michael chuffs out something that might be a laugh and Mike feels bizarre and possessive when he kisses him again.

"I'm gonna-" He fumbles for a condom. "Turn over, okay?"

"I don't want to," Michael says.

"It's easier," Mike tells him. "It'll be easier, please."

And he does it, rolls over and lets Mike pull him up, push a pillow under his hips. He pillows his head on his hands and when Mike pushes in, he tenses.

"It's ok," Mike says. "It's fine. I'm not - I won't move, I can stop."

Michael laughs, breathless. "Christ, what if I did ask you to stop?"

"I would," Mike insists.

"Yes, you would," Michael says with affection. "You'd stop. But don't. Go ahead."

He does, he fucks Michael who rests his head on his arms and sighs. It's amazing and Mike loves it and Michael starts to push back into him, to moan.

"You're good at that," Michael says, and his voice is tight with concentration. He doesn't say, _no wonder Naomi likes it_ , but Mike hears it. "You're very good at that."

"Thanks," Mike says and his teeth are gritted and he has to concentrate when he pulls Michael up a little and starts fucking him in earnest, slow and careful and jerking him off.

"I didn't think I'd come," Michael says after, "Not like that."

"Fuck you," Mike says, smoking his cigarette. Naomi will know he had one in the house and ream him out. "You should know me better than that."

Michael laughs and rolls over and says sleepily, "It wasn't about YOU."

*

Naomi gets home and it's weird. They don't just fall back into what they had before. She's jetlagged to begin with, and then she knows that he and Michael have fucked while she wasn't there, and maybe she feels weird about it, because she's just _different_ somehow.

Michael seems quieter, maybe worried about her, maybe not. He takes to sleeping whenever she does, while she's getting over the jetlag, and Mike sits on the porch and is glad that the weather's good. He tries to leave them alone but there's only so much space and after yet another silent dinner Mike has to go.

He calls the Butcher. Well, that's a lie, he calls Sisky because Butcher's phone is _never_ charged. He talks to Sisky and then asks to speak to Butcher.

"Yo," Butcher says. He sounds echoey, and he tells Mike he's painting the bathroom.

"Painting what? A color?"

"Nah, a mural. I'm painting a coral reef."

"Cool. Does Sisky know?"

"Yeah. But I don't think he thought it'd be this involved." Butcher chuckles.

Mike smiles and flicks his lighter to light a cigarette. "So. How're you fixed for a guest?"

"Yeah? You wanna come through?"

"Yes. I need to just... I need to just not be here."

"Awesome. Sure, we're all set. Sisky's mom bought us new guest bedroom bedding."

"Cool. I'll come break it in."

"It's pretty nice, actually. She has good taste."

"So I can drive up right away?"

"Sure. What's up?"

"Like I said. Just need to not be here."

"Okay. Well. Whenever."

"Thanks," Mike says, and they chat a little longer. When they're done, he goes to pack. He can set off in the morning.

*

When he tells Naomi and Michael the next morning, over breakfast, they both look up at him, pale faces betraying everything.

"I dunno how long I'll be gone," Mike says helplessly. "I just think we all need some space."

"Mike Carden," Michael says tightly, trying to joke, "are you breaking up with us?"

" _No_ ," Mike says emphatically. "Just space, okay? Let me go bug those guys for a while."

"Come back, though," Naomi says.

He kisses her forehead. "I promise."

"Contractually binding in the state of California, okay," Michael says from the other side of the table, and Mike can see that he's trying to joke for all of them, because they're all so tired and sick of each other. He can also see the relief. Michael is a mystery to a lot of people but not to Mike. Not now.

"I promise," Mike says. "Look, you guys need to like, I dunno. Go to the movies. In fact, go every day for a week and tell me about each one, okay? Eat dinner afterward and talk to each other. Stay up late and make love in the yard. Make brownies at six in the morning. I don't care. Just _spend some time together_. Without me, okay?"

They both nod and smile at each other like lovesick teenagers over the table, and Mike knows he's doing to best for them all. Naomi's hand is in his lap and he threads his fingers with hers and finishes his toast.

Sisky meets him at a gas station in Oakland and they drive into the city together, supposedly so that Sisky can give directions, but Mike has his GPS and he's glad, because Sisky really sucks at directions. They're within a few streets of Sisky's place and spend thirty minutes finding a parking space but eventually, _eventually_ , they're hauling Mike's shit out of the car and setting off.

The Butcher's already home, and it's just like coming home, because he's playing Bob Marley loudly and the entire of their floor smells like weed. Butcher meets them at the door and squeezes the breath out of Mike's chest.

Sisky stands and grins and punches Mike's arm. "It's good to see you, man."

"You too," Mike says. "Both of you."

Butcher lets go of him and they proudly show him the guest room, which is clean and beautiful and Mike's half-tempted to go to sleep straight away, but he doesn't. Instead they all get cold Coke from the kitchen and sit on the balcony.

"So what's up?" Mike says.

"Nothing much," Butcher says, his feet in Sisky's lap. "We're good, right?"

"Yep," Sisky says. "Never better."

"Awesome," Mike says. "You heard from Bill?"

"A little?" Sisky says. "He says you never call."

"We've been busy."

"I bet," Butcher says, eyebrows waggling.

"Shut up," Mike says. "You're just jealous."

"Of you guys? No way. The Butcher does not share."

Sisky rubs his ankles appreciatively and grins at Mike.

Mike grins back, because they're just teasing. "Thanks for the space, though. I need it."

"What's the problem?" Butcher asks.

"I dunno. Naomi was in Aus for like, a month, you know? Me and Michael were just kinda rattling around." He doesn't say _But we had sex, without her there_. He doesn't say _And we both enjoyed it, too_. Or _I feel like we overstepped a line and I have to give her back her husband_. He doesn't say _We broke all our own rules and I dunno if we can go back_. He doesn't say any of this and he's not sure how much is implicit or how much Sisky and the Butcher understand anyway. For two such laidback guys they always were kind of astute. He sort of hopes that they still are, that they understand exactly what he means without Mike having to spell it out.

They both look at him and he frowns and looks away. On the wall of the balcony there's a tile, white with black writing on it, maybe 12 inches across, clearly hand painted by the Butcher. Mike has to squint to see what it says, and when he works it out he smiles to himself because it's so fucking _them_. It says:

YOU ARE EXACTLY  
WHO & WHAT & WHERE  
YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE  
AND YOU ARE LOVELY

Mike likes it. He wonders how and when it came about. They'd tell him, if he asked, because they aren't shy about shit like that, but it feels too private to ask. Maybe they're feeling the same, about him and Naomi and Michael, so maybe he should really try to be a little more forthcoming.

"It's weird, okay?" Mike says eventually, feeling their eyes still on him. "Without one of us there, it gets weird."

"And yet, you've left," Sisky says reasonably.

"But those two were _those two_ before I was there. They're married, for fuck's sake. They needed to re-connect."

"What about you?" Butcher asks. "When do they re-connect with you?"

"They don't need to re-connect with me," Mike says.

"Don't they?"

"Yeah," Sisky says. "If you're in this as deep as you seem to be, then you're as equal as either of them."

"But it's not like that," Mike says.

"Isn't it?" Butcher asks. He's playing devil's advocate, and he knows it.

"They're _married_." Mike tries again.

"So? That doesn't give them some kind of superiority," Butcher says, in that tone that says he's beginning to get annoyed. "Alright, so they've been together forever but just the sheer fact that they have a _piece of paper_ that says they love each other doesn't mean they're _better_."

Mike gets that he's speaking from experience here, that right here the personal is political. He nods slowly. "Okay, then they've been together longer."

"Better," Butcher says approvingly. "More in line with what you mean to say."

"What you'd like me to say," Mike retorts.

"Have you heard yourself?" Butcher says, frowning. "Stop fucking making excuses for all three of you. If you're all in this together-"

"Which you _should_ be," Sisky interjects, "since this whole Big Love thing's been going on for _years_ -"

"-Then you're _equal_ ," Butcher says. "They need to realize that."

Mike says nothing but sips on his Coke and nods quietly. He knows what he means, but he also knows the Butcher's kind of right. He just wants things back to how they were, and this was the only solution he could think of.

Maybe he's not in the right place at all.

Still, it's nice to be with other people for a while. Sisky and the Butcher go about their lives and let Mike join in when he wants, and he likes that. There's no pressure. They laugh and cook and talk about the good old days and really, Mike can see that neither of them miss life on the road. Not now, not when they have this to come home to.

On the fourth day Michael texts him. It says: _Day one, saw a film. It sucked... Day two, watched Amelie again. Did not suck... Day three, took N for drinks. Was real nice. Day four still up for discussion_

Mike texts back saying _Good boy xxx_. Then ten minutes later, he texts again with _Miss you_.

 _Same x_ Michael comes back with.

On the sixth day Naomi emails, with the subject line PRIVATE NO REALLY. The body of the email says _Made love in the yard at 2am. Think some cats saw us. It was lovely. Good suggestion. N xxx_. Mike smiles and sends her back a long email about what he's been doing.

It's going to be okay. It's got to be.

*

Halfway back to Los Angeles Mike stops at a diner for lunch and stretches in the parking lot. He grins at the blue sky because his life is pretty good. By the time he gets home Michael and Naomi will have recharged and things won't be weird anymore, and in the meantime he got to see Sisky and the Butcher. It's kinda cool.

He sends a 'Hi how are you?' text to almost everyone in his phone book and all the way home people text back. He reads them all - Jon, Tom, his sister, his aunt in Guam - but doesn't reply to any of them. He'll get to them, later.

Michael is taking the trash out when he pulls into their drive.

"Jesus Christ, did the Pope die or something?"

"Screw you, Mike Carden. We didn't know when you'd be back." Michael's grinning though, and he takes two bags out of the back of Mike's car.

"I said today."

"In your world, mate, that could've been any time."

Mike grunts but doesn't say anything. Instead his eyes are on Michael all the way into the house. He's missed him. He's missed that body. That sounds awful but it's not meant to be. It's just true.

They put Mike's stuff down in the hall and Naomi comes downstairs. She doesn't say anything, just reaches up and puts her arms around Mike. She smells good, like she's clean from the shower. He hugs her back.

"Hey, I missed you," he says softly.

"We missed you too," Michael says, and his arms are around Mike, around his stomach, holding him close.

"I'm sorry," Mike says, and tries to twist to look at Michael.

"It doesn't matter," Naomi says. "It doesn't matter now."

Michael drops a kiss below his ear and Mike smiles. It's good to be home.

*

Bill is a little tipsy but he's not flat out drunk. He's drunk enough for it to loosen his tongue and make him honest, but not so drunk that he becomes an asshole. He's never more honest than like this. He slings an arm around Mike's shoulder, and kisses his cheek. "And where are your lovely polyamorous partners?"

"Not here yet. And don't be an ass."

"I'm never an ass!"

"Kinda are. Look, I know you don't approve-"

"Hey, I never said that."

"It's obvious you don't, though."

"It's not like that, Mike."

"Yes it is," Mike says, and untangles himself from Bill's arm. "Just try to be happy, okay?"

Butcher turns the music up. Fucker. Sisky's grinning and talking at the Butcher, who's nodding vaguely.

"Are you?" Bill asks, gulping his drink.

"Happy? Yes."

"Sure?"

"Fuck, Bill, _yes_. They make me happy. I make them happy. I love Naomi and I pretty much don't get why she wastes her time with either of us. And I love Michael, you _know_ that." Mike's not used to talking this much about them and he swallows, kind of embarrassed. He never normally has to talk about it, because none of them ever think about it in so much detail. It just _is_.

Naomi and Michael arrive. Naomi leans up and kisses Mike's cheek and he squeezes her in greeting. Michael pats his back and says hi close to his ear. Mike grins at him.

Bill raises his glass. "Hey, it's the Chisletts!"

"Alright?" Michael says by way of greeting, then goes to the bar.

Naomi sits down, and Sisky comes over to her with a hug and a kiss. They get into a conversation, and Bill goes to talk to the Butcher, leaving Mike and Michael arguing good-naturedly over the music.

When Bill comes back over he almost falls over a chair, and he lands next to Michael with an 'oof!'. "Hey, Chisletts, how are you?"

"We're good," Michael says. "How are you?"

"I'm good. It's nice to see you. All of you. All you Carden-Chisletts."

"We are _NOT_ the Carden-Chisletts," Mike protests.

"We should be," Michael says. "It's got a ring to it."

Naomi, listening now, beams at him. Sisky grins too.

"It does!" Bill insists. "Mike Carden-Chislett."

"MCC!" Sisky says triumphantly, because he would, the bastard.

Mike glowers into his beer. "Fuck me."

Michael grins at him from under his bangs, that secret, sexy smile that's just for him or Naomi. "MCC it is," he says.

"Awesome," Mike says darkly. "Fucking awesome."

Months later, they make an episode of TAI TV and Sisky says something about MGC and MCC making music together. Mike splutters later, watching it, and tells Bill to edit it before he uploads it. Bill promises to but either forgets or just plain doesn't. No one ever explains it and it just stays on the internet like that, with Mike referred to as MCC, and no one knowing why.

*

So they definitely don't touch when they're with United. Mike usually tries to make sure they don't share a room, because he always just wants to curl up with Michael in bed. Things could be different with TAI on the small tours Tony gets for them, because probably no one would care. Mike's seen more public displays of affection from his bandmates than he'd really care to, but he can't do it himself. He's a private kind of person, regardless of the gender or number of his partners. Butcher and Sisky are one thing. Mike and Michael and especially with Naomi at home in LA, are another. 

They don't touch but they do usually share a room. Michael gets undressed with his back to Mike, and Mike finds himself watching and wanting, and counting down the days until they get home. 

He isn't aware that Michael feels the same way until one day when Michael comes up behind him in an abandoned bus and puts his arms around Mike. 

"Hi?" Mike says, and nearly moves away but resists it. This is okay, it's allowed. Instead he reaches back and strokes Michael's hair. 

"Hey. I miss you."

"I miss you too."

"Soon we'll be home," Michael murmurs. "I can't wait."

"Me either," Mike says, and wonders why it feels so much like a confession.

*

Naomi picks them both up and chatters all the way home in the car. They're both tired so they don't say much back, but in the house Mike kisses Naomi on the mouth. She tastes sweet and she smiles. 

Michael yawns but he's also holding on to Mike's belt loop. He rests his head in Mike's shoulder. 

"You missed each other," Naomi says. She knows about how they aren't together on tour, and even though they've only been away a couple of weeks it must show. 

"A bloody lot," Michael says. 

"Go to bed," she says. "Go sleep in the big bed and I'll crash in the other room."

"That's not fair," Mike protests. 

"Go and _sleep_ ," she says. "You both need it."

It is true that they'll all get better sleep if they aren't squashed in the bed. Michael goes upstairs first, slowly, like he's exhausted. Mike kisses Naomi again. "Thanks. I love you." He doesn't often say it; she needs to hear it. 

"No worries. I'll wake you up in the morning, okay?" She presses a kiss to his forehead. "I love you too."

"Okay." Mike hefts his bag upstairs and dumps it in the hallway. He doesn't need anything from it. He needs to be naked and to sleep on pillows that smell of Naomi, smell of home. Michael is already undressing in the main bedroom and Mike does too. He opens the window to let the cool night in, and leaves the curtain slightly open to let some light in. Michael is practically zombified and after a little fucking with his pillows, he's settled into sleep, blond bangs over his face. 

Mike gets into bed too, behind Michael, and listens to Naomi close things up downstairs. The light in the hallway goes off and then Mike can't hear her anymore, but he can imagine her in the small bed in the small bedroom, among Mike's shit, and he's weirdly comforted by that.

He's absent-mindedly rubbing Michael's hipbone, but Michael doesn't seem to care. Mike can't sleep for a while, so he listens to the house quieten down, listens to the clanks of the heating system. Michael's breathing slows as he falls asleep. 

Mike falls asleep soon after, fingers still on Michael. 

In the morning Naomi's true to her word because she's in the bed with the morning sun streaming on to her skin. She kisses Michael awake. 

"What?" Michael says, starting, and Mike and Naomi both laugh at him. He waves a hand and buries his head in the pillow again. He's in the middle of the two of them and he's warm. Mike runs a hand up his side appreciatively.

"Do you feel better?" Naomi asks, looking at him over Michael. 

Mike feels - feels like - like this is home, like this is real and true and just plain fucking lovely. He feels like this is exactly where he's supposed to be. He isn't homesick anymore, not even when he's away, because he knows there's this to come back to. The LA sunshine is hazy but it's warming and Mike stretches out happily. "I'm on top of the fucking world," he says, and means it.


End file.
